The Mystery of the Stolen Books
by table42
Summary: The Five Find Outers and Dog are home for the holidays again. When Peterswood library is broken into, the gang are soon on the trail... much to Mr Goon's annoyance. Purely Blyton's characters!
1. Fatty goes to the Library

_This story is NOT written by us, but by a friend of ours. His name is Keith, and he has kindly allowed us to post it using our account! I'm sure you'll enjoy it; we sure did! Please comment! Remember, it is NOT written by us; complete credit to Keith at w w w . e n i d b l y t o n . n e t !!

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**The Mystery of the Stolen Books © 2006 Keith Robinson**

**1. Fatty goes to the library**

It was just past four o'clock one rainy spring afternoon when Fatty hurried into the library, his cheeks red and his hair soaking wet. He shook himself like a dog and watched the raindrops fly off in all directions. Buster would have been proud of him!

Dogs weren't allowed in the library so Fatty had left him at home. It was either that or tie the little Scottie to the lamppost outside—but last time Buster had howled with indignation and Fatty had been forced to abandon his happy browsing in the crime section. So now Buster stayed at home, where he could sulk quietly while awaiting his master's return.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Sharple," Fatty called merrily as he trudged by the front desk.

Mrs. Sharple looked up, a rubberstamp poised in her hand. She was a petite white-haired old lady with a nice word to say about everyone. She frowned for a moment, and then beamed a bright smile. "Oh, hello, Frederick! You look so grown up I hardly recognised you. My, haven't you got tall!"

Fatty drew himself up straight, feeling a swell of pride. "Even my English teacher has to look up to me. Of course, I always was an imposing figure, so—"

"Yes, yes, that's nice, dear," said Mrs. Sharple, her smile fading just a little. She put down her rubber stamp and smoothed down her grey cardigan. "So you're home for the holidays?"

"Yes," Fatty said, nodding, "arrived by train this morning. My mother's had her friends round for lunch and I've spent all afternoon entertaining them with classroom stories."

"And how are those friends of yours?" the librarian said. "I know young Margaret, of course—such a polite young lady...and her brother Laurence too. And everyone in Peterswood knows of the Hiltons. Have you seen Philip and Elizabeth since you got back?"

Fatty smiled, amused to hear his friends' proper names being used. "Larry, Daisy, Pip and Bets," he said. "No, I haven't had time. We've arranged to meet tomorrow morning round at Pip's, in their summerhouse if the weather's good. But right now I need some good books, Mrs. Sharple, to brush up on my skills as a detective. Got any good ones in since last hols?"

"Now, let me see," mumbled Mrs. Sharple, rubbing her small chin. "Yes, that's right—you borrowed nearly all of them during the last school holidays, didn't you? You rather liked _The Art of Disguise_, if I remember, and—what's it called? — _The Secrets of Spies_."

"What a fine memory you have!" exclaimed Fatty.

Mrs. Sharple smiled and her cheeks reddened slightly. "I think you'll find a number of lovely new books in the crime section, Frederick. I've stocked up on them due to popular demand."

Fatty blinked, surprised. "Er...popular demand? Who's been asking for new books?"

Mrs. Sharple narrowed her eyes and smiled. "Now, you know I can't give out names of our library members, young man. It wouldn't be proper."

Fatty thanked the old lady and meandered through the bookshelves towards the crime section. There was nothing better than poking through books and learning useful detective tricks, brushing up on the art of questioning suspects and witnesses, discovering new methods of encryption and code-breaking, and all manner of other exciting crime-solving techniques.

That is, nothing better except getting stuck into juicy mysteries! The Five Find-Outers and Dog had solved plenty of puzzling cases during school holidays. It seemed that every time they came home from school, something would turn up out of the blue. From burning cottages, disappearing cats and missing necklaces, to hidden houses, vanished princes and strange messages, there was nothing Fatty and his friends couldn't tackle.

As he arrived in the crime section, Fatty gave a delighted shudder of anticipation at the mass of new books on the shelves. There must be fifty or more now! He dived into them immediately, pulling out a shiny new book entitled _Clues, And How To Analyse Them_. He started to thumb through it, but couldn't help peering over the top and spotting another entitled _The Many Faces of Undercover Detectives_. Enthralled, he pulled that out too, and soon had a stack of books in his hands that he couldn't hope to look at all at once. He searched for a chair and found one tucked around the end of the aisle by the window. He sat, piled the books on the floor, picked one at random, and started into it with a sigh of happiness.

In moments he was lost in a world of mystery and intrigue, where Frederick Algernon Trotteville—the greatest detective that ever lived—was busy solving case after case and getting heaps of praise from his superior officer, Superintendent Jenks. In his daydream, the Five Find-Outers and Dog had a small office set aside for them in the police station in the next town where Jenks worked. Mystery after mystery was piled into their in-tray in the form of top secret folders stuffed with notes; mysteries too difficult for local bobbies to solve; mysteries that required the special attention of Fatty and his friends, Larry, Pip, Daisy and Bets—and of course Buster the dog. Day after day, the Find-Outers set out to crack open the cases and—

A shadow passed over him. He blinked out of his daydream and looked up. A heavy-set man in a dark blue uniform with shiny buttons stood over him, a scowl across his ruddy face and rainwater dripping off his helmet. It was Mr. Goon, the village policeman. "Ho!" he said haughtily. "Back again, are you? Shame you can't stay at school all year and keep out of my way."

"Afternoon, Mr. Goon," Fatty said politely, flashing a grin. "Always wonderful to see our local bobby keeping the order."

"You watch your cheek, Master Trotteville," Mr. Goon growled, putting his hands on his hips. He glared at the books on the floor next to Fatty's chair. "I see you're poking your nose into matters that don't concern you again. Learning how to be a _detective_ so you can interfere with the law as usual."

"Are you learning how to be a detective too, Mr. Goon? Is that why you're here—to borrow a few books all about crime and detection?"

Mr. Goon's nostrils flared. "Books? I don't need _books_, my boy. I'm a trained police officer. And I don't need no help from the likes of you, Master Trotteville. You're best off keeping your nose out."

Fatty closed his book with a snap and spread his hands innocently. "But Mr. Goon, you're my hero! I'm simply following in your tremendous footsteps. One day I shall be an officer of the law too, just like you. I can help you solve mysteries in our lovely village of Peterswood."

Mr. Goon's cheeks turned red. "Over my dead body," he snapped. He pointed a pudgy finger at Fatty's face. "Just you keep out of things, you hear? You kids think you can run rings around me and pull the wool over my eyes. Well, things have changed, see? If I catch you meddling in affairs that don't concern you, there'll be trouble, see?"

Fatty smiled. "I'll be sure to remember that next time a mystery crops up. I'll see to it that all the clues we find are handed over to you straight away. I'm sure you'll do a much better job at solving the case than the Five Find-Outers, now that you've been studying books on how to do your job better."

Mr. Goon ground his teeth for a moment while breathing hard through his nose. He clenched and unclenched his enormous ham fists, and his face turned a familiar shade of purple.

After what seemed an age he stepped back and waggled his finger at Fatty once more. "You just mind what I said," he growled. Then he turned and stalked away.

Fatty jumped to his feet and watched the policeman stomp past Mrs. Sharple at the front desk. She looked surprised. "Going so quickly, Mr. Goon? I thought you were here to borrow some more books—"

"Job to do," the policeman grumbled loudly, and exited the library. Through the window Fatty watched him hunch up his shoulders and set off into the rain.

"Touchy," Fatty said quietly to himself. He chuckled, returned to his seat, and opened the book he'd been reading. "Well, well, well," he murmured. "So Old Clear-Orf's brushing up on his skills too."

Old Clear-Orf was what the Find-Outers called Mr. Goon, because "clear orf" seemed to be his favourite thing to say to them. Fatty sat and chuckled for a moment, trying to imagine the lazy policeman getting stuck into a good book. More likely the book would lay open across his lap as he snoozed the afternoon away.

Fatty wondered if Goon had just returned a few books. Maybe he could ask Mrs. Sharple about it; it would be funny to see which ones the idiotic policeman had borrowed! But he doubted the fussy librarian would tell him if he asked directly, because there was a privacy issue to consider and Mrs. Sharple took her job very seriously. He thought for a moment, and then got up and headed for the front desk. "Mrs. Sharple?"

The librarian smiled at him. "Found something nice?"

"Pardon?" Fatty glanced at the book in his hands. "Oh, yes. This and a pile of others. But I was wondering...do you have any others checked out at the moment?"

Mrs. Sharple pursed her lips. "One or two, if I recall. I'd have to check my records. Oh, and there's a few more here, which were returned earlier." She reached for a small stack of books behind her, and plucked off the top three.

Fatty smiled to himself. Those had to be the ones Mr. Goon just brought back. "Oh," he said, pretending to be surprised. "Good job I asked, then. May I see? These might be just what I need. Thanks very much."

He took the three books and returned to his chair near the crime section. So what had Mr. Goon been reading? The first was called _Sniffing Out Criminals_. Fatty snorted and gave a laugh. Sniffing out criminals was certainly something the idiotic policeman needed help with!

The next was called _The Many Faces Of The Law_. Fatty flipped through it with interest, but put it down when he realized it was mostly about long-term undercover work, something beyond his scope. He loved undercover work, but until he was an adult he would have to make do with being back by teatime each day.

The third book was the most interesting. _Clues_ focused on how to correctly preserve the scene of a crime. Fatty instantly remembered all the false clues he and his friends had left lying about for Old Clear-Orf to find. When Lady Candling's valuable Siamese cat Dark Queen had disappeared, the Find-Outers had delighted in stuffing a load of useless clues through the bars of the cage for the policeman to find. That was known as contaminating the crime scene, Fatty thought, reading part of the book.

Mrs. Sharple called to him. "We're closing in five minutes, Frederick."

Fatty glanced at his watch, and was startled to find it was just before five o'clock. He'd been there nearly an hour already! He quickly chose three books and returned the rest neatly to the shelves. Then he hurried to the front desk, brandishing his library card.

Mrs. Sharple stamped his books and wrote carefully in a large book on her desk. Then she passed the books to Fatty and smiled pleasantly. "I do hope you enjoy them, Frederick. And say hello to your friends for me, won't you? You should encourage them to come in occasionally."

"I should," Fatty said, thinking that wouldn't be a bad idea. His fellow Find-Outers could do with sharpening their detective brains a little.

He waved goodbye and headed towards the door. As he reached for the handle a huge bald man burst in and brushed past him rudely, seeming to be in a hurry. Fatty was too surprised to protest, and he stood in the doorway for a moment watching the burly man glance about as if unsure where to look.

"Some people have no manners," Fatty mumbled, shaking his head.

It was still raining outside so he stuffed the books under his coat and hurried up the lane to his house.


	2. Together again—and a new mystery!

**2. Together again—and a new mystery!**

The next morning was cool, but sunny and bright. Fatty decided to give Buster a nice long walk over to the Hiltons, instead of riding him on the bike. Besides, his long coat made it difficult to cycle—especially with no end of useful things crammed into his capacious pockets. A good detective never knew what might be needed during the course of solving a mystery.

When he arrived at Pip and Bets' large house at precisely half past nine, he ignored the front door and ambled instead up the path that led to the enormous back garden. It was surrounded all around with trees and bushes, and to one side ivy almost completely smothered a high wall. The Five Find-Outers had climbed that wall many a time, back when Lady Candling's valuable Siamese cat, Dark Queen, had disappeared. That had been only their second mystery, and it had all taken place right next door to Pip and Bets!

Basking in the sunlight in the middle of the garden stood the summerhouse, where Bets' high-pitched laughter could be heard. Fatty let Buster off his leash and the black Scottie took off, barking madly. He tore around the summerhouse to the entrance and jumped on the four friends sitting there. They all yelled with delight.

"Buster!" came Bets' voice above the others. "Oh, it's so good to see you! Where's Fatty?"

"Here," Fatty announced, stepping into view.

Larry and Daisy Daykin, and Pip and Bets Hilton, all jumped to their feet and crowded around Fatty, a squabble of enthusiastic voices. "Gosh, you're taller than ever!" said Larry, standing next to him. "You're just about as tall as me now!"

Larry, the eldest of the five at fifteen years old, was tall and a little lanky. His sister Daisy—whose real name was Margaret—was a year younger, the same age as Pip and Fatty. She stood as high as Larry's shoulder. She'd let her hair grow since the last holidays and now she pulled it back in a ponytail.

Pip was as short as ever. His father had long ago started calling him a pipsqueak and the nickname had stuck. Pip had given up trying to get his friends and family to call him by his proper name, Philip. "Pip suits you," his father would tell him with a smile. Even Bets, Pip's ten-year-old sister Elizabeth, seemed to be catching up to him.

Daisy looked Fatty up and down. "You've lost weight," she said over Buster's joyful barking.

"His head's still as big as always though, I'll bet," Pip added, nudging Daisy. "Anything new to boast about, Fatty?"

"He's got good reason to boast though," said Bets proudly. She gazed at Fatty with adoration. "I'll bet you've learned all sorts of new detective tricks since we were last together!"

Fatty laughed. He turned to the black Scottie dog. "Buster, you'd better stop that barking—you'll annoy Mrs. Hilton. Besides, we can't hear ourselves think."

Buster stopped barking and whined instead, pawing at first Larry's leg, then Daisy's, then Pip's, and finally Bets'. Bets knelt to wrestle with him in the grass.

"So?" Larry demanded. "What's new? Know of any juicy mysteries?"

Fatty laughed again. "I only just got home from school! Do you think mysteries are lined up outside my house waiting to be solved?"

Bets giggled. "Wouldn't that be wonderful! If we could just go and choose a mystery to solve each hols."

"Don't be a prize idiot," said Pip rudely. He had little patience for his younger sister's silly ideas. "Mysteries don't grow on trees. They just happen out of the blue."

"I _know_, I was just—oh, never mind." Bets hugged Buster tightly around the neck. "It's so good to _see_ you again, Buster, and you too, Fatty. Oh, _why_ couldn't you come and see us when you got home yesterday?"

Fatty shrugged. "Sorry, but when my mother takes it upon herself to invite her friends round for lunch and show off her tall handsome son, who was top of his form again, well—"

Larry, Pip and Daisy rushed in and pummeled him, and Fatty backed away with his hands held up in defense. "Those were her words, not mine!"

Bets leaned over to whisper in Buster's ear. "Your master's very talented and brainy and clever, but sometimes he's a little bigheaded."

"Bets!" said Fatty. "I thought you were on my side!"

Pip rolled his eyes. "She thinks you're the greatest thing since sliced bread. Always going on about you and how clever you are. Makes me want to be sick."

Fatty laughed and decided he'd better change the subject. "Actually, I have some fairly interesting news."

Four eager faces stared back at him. "Well?" said Daisy.

"Let's all sit down," said Fatty. When they were all seated comfortably in the summerhouse, Fatty told them about his trip to the library the previous afternoon. "All the way home from school yesterday I was thinking about how I want to spend these hols brushing up on detective work—for when I become a real detective. I'll be leaving school before I know it, and I want to be two or three steps ahead when I join the police force one day."

"You already are," said Bets. "Honestly, you'll be the best detective in the world!"

"Well, that's probably true," said Fatty, feeling a surge of pride once more. "Honestly, I think I have more brains than most—"

"Fatty," said Larry, Daisy and Pip in unison.

Fatty broke off and smiled ruefully. "Well, anyway, after my mother and her friends got through poking and prodding me I slipped out the back. I thought about ringing you and coming round but, well, it was raining and getting late so I thought it would be better to pop down to the library instead. I wanted to see if they had any new books in."

"And had they?" Larry asked.

"Yes. Lots. But guess who I bumped into."

There was a silence as the four glanced at each other. Then Bets said tentatively, "Mr. Goon?"

Fatty was delighted with her. "Right first time! Excellent guess, Bets." Bets went red, pleased as punch at praise from Fatty. "Yes, Mr. Goon, our favourite village idiot—I mean, policeman." Everyone chortled.

Then Pip did a double take. "Wait—you mean Mr. Goon was there, at the library?"

Fatty nodded. "At the library."

Larry shook his head as if to clear it. "Hold up. Are you telling us Mr. Goon reads books?"

Fatty laughed and leaned down to tickle Buster's stomach. "Even buffoons like Mr. Goon read sometimes. He's a policeman, after all. He must have read _something_ to study for his police exams or whatever. And there he was, at the library, as large as life—if not larger."

Everyone burst into laughter. Then Bets pointed at the books hidden under Fatty's coat, which had become exposed when he'd leaned forward. "Are those detective books?"

"They certainly are." Fatty handed her one, and gave the other two to Larry and Daisy. "Excellent reading material for Find-Outers. I'm surprised you don't come along to the library yourselves and pick out some good crime books. That way you wouldn't be so reliant on my skills all the time."

Larry kicked at him. "All right, all right, don't rub it in. You know we're not as good at disguises as you are."

"But it's not just about disguises," Fatty said seriously. He pointed at the book Daisy held. "See? That one's about analysing crime scenes—you know, checking for finger prints, figuring out how a burglar entered a house when there are no visible signs of forced entry—even clues that show if a burglary was staged."

"What's 'staged' mean?" Bets asked, interested.

"A set up," Fatty replied. "If someone wants to make it look like a burglar broke into their house and stole valuable things, he might smash a window and ransack the place a little. But there are always clues to prove it's just been set up, or staged."

"Like what?" Pip asked.

"Well, some idiots have been known to smash the window from the _inside_ rather than the outside," Fatty said, lowering his voice as if passing on important secret information. "So the broken glass ends up in the flower bed rather than on the carpet. That's a dead giveaway." Fatty sat back and waved his hand dismissively. "But that's an easy one. Usually clues are much more subtle than that."

"Ooh, I love clues," said Bets, her eyes shining.

Pip laughed. "When Mr. Hick's cottage caught fire, you thought they were called 'glues'!"

"I did not!" Bets exclaimed—but she knew it was true and went red at the memory. Changing the subject, she said, "Why would anyone stage a burglary? Why would a person smash their own window and steal their own valuables?"

"For insurance," Larry said at once. "Like when Mr. Hick's cottage burnt down. He'd insured those valuable old documents in case of theft or damage see? Then he quietly sold them for a fair price, and afterwards set fire to his cottage and pretended the papers were still in there so he could claim money from the insurance company. Sort of like getting paid twice for the same thing."

Bets shook her head and sighed. "I remember now. But I'll never understand some of the things people do."

Fatty squeezed her shoulder. "That's because you're a good, decent person, Bets."

Buster suddenly cocked his head to one side, gave a short bark and wagged his tail. He darted out of the summerhouse and set off across the garden towards the house. Moments later the group heard Mrs. Hilton's voice.

"Oh, hello, Buster. So Frederick's here, then? I didn't see him come in."

"That's mother," groaned Pip in a low voice. "Probably coming to set chores for Bets and me."

But, to Pip's surprise, she had come out to offer some news instead. "Something's happened," she said. "The library has been broken into, and poor old Mrs. Sharple is in a bit of a state. What's the world coming to when a _library_ gets broken into, for heaven's sake!"

The Find-Outers stared at her in amazement, and then glanced around at each other.

"But...why?" Pip asked finally. "Was anything stolen?"

"Books, probably," his mother said, shaking her head. "There's certainly no money kept at the library, except a little petty cash—which was still there, by the way. So I can only assume that books were stolen."

"You mean Mrs. Sharple doesn't know?" asked Daisy.

Fatty answered before Mrs. Hilton could open her mouth. "How _could_ she know? If someone stole books from different shelves, it would take hours, perhaps days, to go through the entire library and check off all the books against her inventory. Only then would she know what's missing."

"Exactly," Mrs. Hilton said, nodding. "And that's where you children come in."

"You want us to solve the mystery?" Bets exclaimed suddenly, leaping to her feet. "Oh, Mummy! You're actually suggesting we get involved?"

Mrs. Hilton raised an eyebrow and looked sternly at her daughter, then at Pip. "No, I am most certainly _not_ suggesting you get involved. Mr. Goon is already there, dealing with the matter. I simply think it would be nice if you children helped Mrs. Sharple with her inventory, that's all. It would be much faster with six going through the lists rather than one, and the quicker Mrs. Sharple can work out what's missing, the quicker she can file a report to Mr. Goon and send him on his way."

Daisy giggled. "You don't like him any more than we do, do you, Mrs. Hilton?"

Mrs. Hilton chose her words carefully. "He's our village policeman and should be treated with respect," she said slowly. "I just wish he was better at dealing with people."

"And better at his job," Fatty added.

Everyone exploded into laughter and Mrs. Hilton smiled. "Now, are you all interested in helping Mrs. Sharple with her inventory?"

The Find-Outers looked at one another and came to a unanimous decision. "We'll do it," Fatty said solemnly. "We'd be glad to help. She's a nice old lady, always willing to help others."

"And she's so sweet about letting children have old books the library no longer needs," Daisy added. "I went in once and she had a stack of books nobody ever borrowed, so she let me pick through them and take what I wanted."

"Then that's settled," Mrs. Hilton said, nodding. "I'll telephone Mrs. Sharple now and tell her you'll be over straight away. Oh—and remember what I said, children. You're to help with the inventory, but that's all. Please don't meddle with Mr. Goon's investigation."

She headed off up the garden, leaving five very excited children. When she was safely out of earshot Larry turned to Fatty with gleaming eyes. "Well, what do you think of _that!_ A mystery—and the hols have only just started!"

Fatty grinned. "And we were just talking about burglaries as well!" He rubbed his hands together. "Well, Find-Outers, we have our sixteenth mystery to date."

"But we don't know what it is yet," said Bets.

Pip snorted. "Idiot! Didn't you hear Mother? Someone broke into the library!"

"Yes, but we don't know why, or what was stolen," Bets protested. "We can't give our mystery a name if we don't know what the mystery's about. We can't very well call it the Mystery of the Burglarised Library."

"Why not?" Fatty asked with a twinkle in his eye. "It's better than the Mystery of the Library That Got Broken Into."

Everyone laughed, and even Bets smiled. But Fatty, as usual, took her side and spoke up for her. "Bets is right. We need to know more about this mystery before naming it. Maybe it's the Mystery of the Stolen Books—_if_ books were stolen. But it could just as easily be the Mystery of the Tramp Who Wanted A Warm Place To Sleep."

Everyone laughed again, and Buster joined in with an excited volley of barks.


	3. Searching for clues

**3. Searching for clues**

The Five Find-Outers headed down to the library, dropping an indignant Buster off at Fatty's home on the way.

Union Street branched off diagonally from the High Street, and Peterswood Library filled the awkward triangular corner. Mr Goon's familiar bicycle stood propped outside the front door, and a CLOSED sign hung in the window, so Fatty ushered his friends around to the small garden at the back.

The garden was nestled between hedges and the backs of houses, accessible through a small side gate. Fatty had sat there in the past, on one of the wrought iron benches around an oversized fountain. The old statue of Cupid was badly worn and crumbling now, but the water flowing into the circular basin was clean and fresh, and sparkled in the sunlight. It was a very peaceful, tranquil place to sit and read.

Fatty led the way into the garden and stopped before a large broken window, which had been cordoned off with yellow police tape. Tiny fragments of glass lay all over the window sill. "You know, before we go in and see Mrs Sharple, let's poke around out here while we can—before we get under Mr Goon's feet and upset him. Careful now. Keep an eye out for clues."

"Clues!" Bets said loudly, and went red as Pip rounded furiously on her with his finger to his lips. "Sorry."

Fatty leaned over the yellow tape, scanning the area under the window. "It's a shame we can't get closer," he said. "I've never known Mr Goon to use police tape before. He must be growing some brains!"

Daisy pointed at the nearby back door, which stood wide open. "It seems odd that someone would break a huge window when they could have broken a small pane in the door there and let themselves in that way."

"Now, that's good detective work," Fatty said approvingly. "Keep it up. Now ask yourself—why _would_ someone choose to smash a huge window instead of a tiny square pane? Why risk lots more noise and have to clamber over a window sill when you could just make a small hole, stick your hand in, and unlatch the door?"

There was a silence while everyone pondered. Fatty waited patiently. Finally Pip said slowly, "Maybe the door was bolted as well as locked. Even if the burglar drove his fist through the glass, stuck his hand in, and unlocked the door...well, what if he couldn't reach the bolt at the top without breaking another pane of glass higher up?"

"Excellent," Fatty said, slapping Pip hard on the back. "That's a good theory." He sighed, staring at the yellow tape. "I wish we could get a closer look at that window."

"Can't we just duck under the tape?" Daisy whispered. "Mr Goon's over at the front desk, talking to Mrs Sharple—look, see?"

They all peered through the broken window, and sure enough, there was the heavyset policeman at the opposite end of the library, taking notes and looking very important.

"Much as I hate to say it," Fatty said, shaking his head, "it's wrong to enter a crime scene—even if it's only Mr Goon's. We could contaminate the area."

Bets gasped. "Contaminate? But we don't have any diseases!"

Pip laughed and gave her a sharp, brotherly nudge. "Bets, you're the funniest. Diseased! Fatty means we might accidentally leave footprints or other traces of us in the crime scene. We might even spoil any genuine clues, just by stepping on them or something."

"Oh."

Fatty pointed at the smattering of glass fragments along the grass beneath the window. "See the glass? Remember what I said about staging burglaries? Well, this window was broken inwards. Although some of the glass is on the outside, most of it is inside—which means at least someone broke in, not out."

"Is that a footprint?" said Larry suddenly, gesturing towards the window sill. From where they stood they could just about make out a brown smudge that looked like it could have been where someone had put their foot while climbing in.

"I _wish_ we could get a closer look," groaned Fatty. "I'd love to make a drawing of that and compare it to suspects' shoes later in the case."

"Well, let's go in and look from the inside," Pip said. "I can't see any yellow police tape in there, can you?"

Pip was right. Mr Goon had probably ordered Mrs Sharple to close the library for a while, so he obviously didn't expect anyone to enter. But Fatty and his friends were expected to help Mrs Sharple with her inventory, so the library wasn't closed to _them!_

Fatty hurried inside, and stopped to examine the back door. "See—a latch, which anyone could have opened if they'd stuck their fist through one of these small glass panes." Then he pointed upwards. "But see here—there's a dead-bolt, just as Pip said. That probably means someone _knew_ the dead-bolt was there. Maybe he checked out the place during previous visits, trying to find the best way to break in. And when he saw the dead-bolt he knew he wouldn't be able to get in this way without smashing at least two of these little panes—one down low close to the latch, and one higher up."

Pleased, Fatty hurried on down the hall and emerged into the library. Larry, Pip, Daisy and Bets hurried behind, excited that they were investigating a brand new mystery.

Fatty put a finger to his lips and sidled around the bookshelves towards the broken window, taking care to avoid being spotted by Mr Goon and Mrs Sharple. The elderly librarian was talking in a quavering voice to the stolid policeman, who stood writing in his notebook with the utmost concentration.

The Find-Outers cautiously approached the rear window. Glass lay everywhere—huge shards as well as thousands of tiny fragments glittering from the carpet. There was no tape surrounding the window, so Fatty edged over to the sill, taking care where he trod. Glass crunched underfoot as he peered down at the dirty brown stain on the white painted sill.

"It's a footprint all right," he whispered over his shoulder to where the others stood patiently. "You stay right there, and if Mr Goon wanders over make sure you head him off."

Fatty reached into his capacious pockets and withdrew his notebook and a pencil. He would have preferred a full size sheet of paper so he could get the exact size of the print and everything, but he'd have to make do with a reduced scale drawing. The print was mostly a muddy smudge, but one small part was a clear pattern that could be matched up with the soles of shoes—if the Find-Outers happened to come across the pair worn by the intruder. It was a long shot, but good detectives had to make note of every detail.

"Hurry," Larry whispered.

Fatty nodded, but spent a few more minutes carefully sketching before finally slipping his notebook and pencil back into his pocket. Nodding with satisfaction, he glanced around the window frame again, looking for anything that might be useful as a clue. Then he crunched over the glass and returned to his friends.

"Now," he said, rubbing his hands, "let's announce our presence as if we've only just walked in."

They began chatting amiably as they sauntered between the bookshelves towards the front desk. Mr Goon's head snapped around and his face turned deep red.

"Get out!" he roared. "The library's closed! Didn't you see the sign on the front door? Or can't you read?"

Larry spread his hands. "We didn't come in that way."

"We came in the back," Pip added. "And there were no signs there at all."

Mr Goon advanced on them angrily. "And I suppose you didn't see the yellow police tape? I would have thought that was pretty plain to see, even for meddling kids like you."

"Oh, we saw that all right," Fatty agreed. "And we took it to mean don't come in through the window. So we used the door, which was standing wide open."

Mr Goon ground his teeth and huffed himself up. "Now, see here. I don't know who you think you are, coming here and wandering in as if you have a right to be here. The library's _closed_, got it? So clear orf!"

"But Mr Goon," said Mrs Sharple in small, trembling voice, "these children are here to help."

Mr Goon turned on her. "Over my dead body," he said scornfully. "I have no need for help from any kids. I'm an officer of the law, and I can manage this perfectly well on my own, thank you very much."

"No, they're here to help _me_," Mrs Sharple said timidly. "Mrs Hilton telephoned before lunch and said they had kindly offered to help go through the inventory with me." She turned to the Find-Outers and beamed. "And I can't tell you how grateful I am for that!"

Mr Goon's mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Finally he snapped his notebook shut and stuffed it in his pocket. "Right," he growled to Fatty, "you go ahead and help Mrs Sharple with her inventory. But not until I'm finished in here, understand? Go outside and wait. I have important police business to take care of and I don't want a lot of noisy kids pestering me."

Fatty sighed. "Whatever you say, Mr Goon." He turned to go, but suddenly turned back. "By the way, did you learn anything at all in that book you read recently? What's it called now?— _Sniffing Out Criminals_, that's it. Fascinating book, isn't it?"

Mr Goon glared at him. "What? What are you talking about? I never read no such book. Where did you get that idea? I'm a trained police officer, I am. I have no use for silly amateur books. Now be on your way."

Fatty nodded politely and headed outside with the others in tow.

"What was all that about?" said Larry, perplexed.

"I'll tell you another time," Fatty replied mysteriously. "While Old Clear-Orf is inside nattering with Mrs Sharple, we should take the opportunity to search the grounds a little. Let's spread out and walk across the grass—and keep your eyes peeled!"

The five of them fanned out from the library's back door and set off at a snail's pace across the enclosed garden, all eyes on the ground.

"Are we looking for clues?" asked Bets excitedly.

"Anything that might have been dropped by the intruder," said Fatty, nodding. "Pip—you're closest to the fountain. Make sure you check around it carefully. The intruder might have had a cigarette or something, perhaps before he plucked up the courage to break in."

Daisy turned to him, looking astonished. "Fatty, whatever would make you think he stood by the fountain plucking up courage? Surely a professional burglar would be in and out as fast as possible!"

Fatty scanned the short grass at his feet. "We don't anything about the intruder yet. He might have not been a burglar. He might have been a tramp looking for a warm, dry place to spend last night. It was raining all day yesterday, remember? We don't know anything yet—so we must consider all possibilities rather than jumping to conclusions."

There was a silence as the Find-Outers continued their slow amble across the garden. Pip hung back. Being in the middle and having the fountain in his path, he had a lot of nooks and crannies to search—all sorts of places where someone could have dropped a cigarette end.

"There are lots of them!" he said in dismay. Everyone looked across at him. He stood at the base of the fountain, looking appalled at the amount of squashed cigarettes that had been left lying about. "However will we know if one of these belongs to the intruder?"

Fatty sighed. "We won't. But it was worth looking anyway. Keep moving."

They all reached the far end of the garden at the same time, except for Pip who caught up to them shortly afterwards. They walked alongside the hedge until they met in the middle, where an opening led through into an alleyway.

"Where does this go?" asked Bets, peering through the gap. "Ooh, it looks creepy and dark."

The alley was very long and dead straight, stretching so far it was hard to see all the way to the end. "It runs behind the houses and shops of the High Street," Fatty said. "And on the left is the grounds of the old school that was closed a few years ago. It fronts onto Union Street."

Wooden fences six feet high ran the length of the alley on the right hand side, while on the left a rickety chain link fence was almost buried under overgrown bushes. Chestnut trees had dropped conkers all over the path, and Larry exclaimed in delight as he stepped through into the alley.

"We should collect a few of these! We could have a good old conker-bashing game later."

The five eagerly rushed out to find the biggest conkers they could, forgetting for a moment they were in the middle of an important mystery. Fatty used his pocket knife to prize off the spiky shells so they could deposit the fresh conkers into their pockets without getting pricked.

"Now, Find-Outers," said Fatty, "remember we're supposed to be working here. If I wanted to break into the library, I'd break in round the back. And there are only two ways into the back garden—through the side gate where we came in, or along this alley. Which way do you think the intruder came in?"

"This way, without a doubt," Pip said. "And I'll bet he left this way too. So there are _bound_ to be clues along here somewhere!"

"Let's hope so," said Fatty, setting off along the narrow path. "And let's hope Mr Goon hasn't beaten us to it!"


	4. Sausage rolls—and a discovery!

**4. Sausage rolls—and a discovery!**

The Five Find-Outers walked slowly along the quiet narrow alleyway, their eyes cast down onto the uneven paving stones where weeds poked up through the gaps.

Larry twisted and broke off a thin overhanging branch and worked at it for a moment, stripping it bare of leaves. The others watched him, puzzled—and then their faces brightened as Larry began thrashing at stinging nettles that grew in clumps up ahead. "Nasty old things," he said, stamping them down so they were good and flat.

Fatty made an exclamation and the others turned to him. "Look," he said. "Someone might have squeezed through this gap in the fence."

A small section in the chain link fence had been peeled back. Fatty grasped it and widened the gap, peering through the fence at the thick bushes beyond.

"The intruder _might_ have squeezed through there," said Pip doubtfully. "But he might not have. He might have simply run off up the alley."

"True," Fatty agreed. "So why don't you and Daisy go that way, and the others can come with me into the old school grounds. We'll have a poke around and see if we can find anything."

Fatty, Larry and Bets squeezed one by one through the tiny gap in the fence and disappeared into the bushes, while Pip and Daisy continued up the alley, their eyes sharp and alert for possible clues.

"It's so exciting to be on the track of another mystery!" said Daisy happily. "Why would someone break into a library? What can be so important that someone would risk smashing a window for?"

Pip shrugged. "I can't for the life of me think why someone would break in and steal a few books. Money, maybe—but not books. Not unless they were valuable, and I doubt any of the books in the library are valuable, otherwise we wouldn't be allowed to borrow them! And anyway, why not just walk in during open hours and sneak a few books out under a coat?"

"Maybe the intruder's not a member," said Daisy.

Pip frowned. "But he could still wander about and _pretend_ he is, and then leave as if he hadn't found anything he wanted. Would Mrs Sharple know he's not a member, just by sight? Surely she can't remember _all_ the library members!"

They walked in silence for a while, the alleyway eerily quiet and still. Occasionally they heard voices behind the wooden fences to their right—a lady doing a spot of gardening, and children playing ball. But all the voices seemed distant, strangely unable to disturb the stillness of the alley.

"Creepy, isn't it?" said Daisy with a shudder. "I couldn't imagine coming along here on my own at night!"

Pip looked behind him, and then ahead. "We're only about halfway along too. Come on, let's speed up a little, otherwise we'll be here all day."

They picked up their pace and walked all the way to the far end of the alley without finding a single clue. There were bits of rubbish lying about, and lots of cigarette ends, but nothing that looked fresh from the previous night. They emerged from the end of alley empty-handed.

"Oh, we're at the bakery!" Daisy exclaimed. "We've been here lots of times and never even knew this alley was here!"

A large freestanding sign stood outside the bakery, right in front of the alley. What with the sign and the overhanging trees and bushes, passers-by would be hard-pushed to spot the alley unless they were looking for it.

The delicious aroma of freshly baked sausage rolls wafted out the bakery door. "Come on," said Pip, heading inside. "It'll be _hours_ until lunch. We'll grab a few snacks and head back to join the others."

Minutes later they emerged from the bakery with Pip carrying a paper bag containing five jumbo size sausage rolls. His stomach was already growling as he hurried down the alley with Daisy right behind him.

"Oh no!" Daisy said suddenly.

Pip saw it too—a dark blue figure up ahead. Old Clear-Orf was on the trail!

"We have nothing to hide," said Pip, after faltering for a moment. "We're just buying sausage rolls and heading back to the library to eat them. After all, we have a lot of inventory work ahead of us."

"Just don't tell him where the others are," Daisy murmured. "He'll have a fit. He'll probably arrest them for trespassing."

Mr Goon's eyes were on the ground as they approached, and he didn't look up until they were within twenty paces. "Ho!" he exclaimed, clearly irritated. "I wondered where you'd all gone. Hoped you'd cleared orf home. But here you are, turning up like bad pennies as usual."

"Fancy a sausage roll, Mr Goon?" Pip asked politely, holding out the bag.

Mr Goon glanced at the bag and sniffed involuntarily, and for a brief moment his irritated expression was replaced with longing. Pip waved the bag under his nose. "Really, Mr Goon—they're hot and fresh. If you want one, I'd be glad to tell you where I got them from."

"Yes," said Daisy quickly, "the bakery's just along the alley. There were still a few sausage rolls left when we left."

Pip opened the bag, reached in, and withdrew one. He bit into it and closed his eyes. "Mmm," he said with his mouth full. "Oh yes. This is the best sausage roll I've ever had. Want one, Daisy?"

"I'd love one, Pip." Daisy reached into the bag, withdrew one, and took a huge, very un-lady-like bite. "Mmmm-mmm."

Mr Goon's face turned red. "Gah! You kids always seem to be eating. You'll get fat one of these days, like that other boy, Frederick Trotteville."

Pip wondered what Fatty would say to that if he were here. Mr Goon wasn't exactly lean himself.

"Speaking of that boy," Mr Goon said, suddenly looking puzzled, "where is he?"

Pip thought quickly. "I thought he was waiting in the library garden. Daisy and I were just going to get a snack. Wasn't he there, with Larry and Bets?"

"No, he wasn't," the policeman snapped. "I'll bet he's snooping around, poking his nose into affairs that don't concern him. Looking for clues, no doubt. Well, if he's been up this alley already, you tell him he missed one."

Mr Goon seemed pleased with himself all of a sudden. Pip and Daisy glanced at each other.

"What clue would that be, Mr Goon?" Pip asked, curious. If Mr Goon really had found a clue just now, how come the Find-Outers hadn't found it?

But Mr Goon simply tapped his breast pocket. "Hah! Think I'd tell you? Now, be orf with you. Go and help Mrs Sharple with her inventory if you must—I'm finished in there. And the glazing company has just arrived, so stay out of their way while they sort out that window."

With that, Mr Goon stomped past them, eyes on the ground.

"Well!" said Pip, astonished. He stared at his sausage roll as if it was to blame for something. "Old Clear Orf found a clue! Why didn't _we_ spot anything?"

"It probably wasn't a clue at all," Daisy said, giggling suddenly. "It was probably one of a hundred cigarette ends, or a wrapping paper that's been there for months. I doubt Mr Goon would know the difference between a fresh clue and an old piece of rubbish."

Feeling relieved, they continued along the path until they reached the gap in the chain link fence. Pip glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Mr Goon wasn't watching. He wasn't; he was ambling along in the far distance, staring hard at the ground.

Quick as a flash, Pip and Daisy scrambled through the hole, taking care not to drop or bump their half-eaten sausage rolls. They emerged into the bushes and threaded their way through until they reached a wide open field of long grass. Over the far side of the field stood a rundown brick building—the old primary school.

"Where are the others?" Daisy asked, looking carefully about. "I can't see them anywhere."

But Pip could. He nudged Daisy with an elbow and pointed to where a small shed stood off to one side, fairly close to the iron railing that ran along Union Street. Fatty, Larry and Bets were there, sitting on the grass by the shed door—and they were busy looking at something.

"What have they got?" asked Daisy curiously. "Oh, do you think it's a clue?"

"Let's go and see," said Pip, and headed off at top speed across the field.

As they approached they heard Bets' excited voice, but Pip couldn't make out the words. They'd found something all right! But what?

"Hey," he called. The others glanced round at him. "What have you found?"

"Oh, Pip!" Bets squealed. "We've found the stolen books!"

Startled, Pip and Daisy at last reached the trio sitting on the grass and stopped breathlessly with sausage rolls forgotten in their hands.

Fatty, Larry and Bets were crowded around a huge pile of books, perhaps forty or fifty of them. They had been strewn carelessly about, and lay open and flapping in the breeze, some upside down with badly creased pages, others tossed haphazardly aside to lie in the slightly damp grass. Pip was shocked. It seemed they were all ruined.

Fatty held up a book. "See this, Pip? _The Mindset of Thieves_." Fatty dropped it and picked up another. "_Crime Doesn't Pay_. And see here—_Sniffing Out Criminals_."

Dumbfounded, Pip glanced at some of the other titles as Fatty continued to sift through them.

"Every single one of these is to do with crime and detection," said Larry. "There aren't any others. No history books, no sports journals, nothing! Just crime and detection."

Daisy found her voice. "But...why would someone steal a bunch of books and...and dump them here?"

Fatty got to his feet, looking with interest at the paper bag Pip held. "Are those for us, old boy? Jolly decent of you."

Pip remembered the sausage rolls and held out the bag. "Sorry. Completely forgot about them. Tuck in, you three—they're delicious!"

While the five of them munched on their sausage rolls, they stood looking down at the sad pile of books. Perhaps they could be saved, thought Pip as he popped the last of his pastry into his mouth. With a bit of tender loving care...

He frowned, chewing slowly. "You know," he said, "whoever stole these must have had a bag of some kind. He couldn't have carried all these in his hands. But there's no bag here."

"Correct," Fatty said with his mouth full. "And...?"

"And..." Pip stopped, thinking hard. "And what? He had a bag. That's all. I suppose he knew there were lots of books in that section and brought a bag along with him—which he took away again afterwards."

"It suggests forethought," said Fatty, nodding.

"But why dump them _here?_" asked Daisy again. "Why dump them at all? What's the point in stealing books and then leaving them in a field straight afterwards?"

"And that," Fatty announced, waving half a sausage roll about, "is what we have to find out." He smiled at Bets. "It _is_ the Mystery of the Stolen Books after all, young Bets. Why did someone break in, steal them—and then dump them all?"


	5. Clues for Mr Goon

**5. Clues for Mr Goon**

Fatty wished he had another sausage roll to munch on. It really had been the best one he'd had in a long time. He made a mental note to get some more from that bakery next time they passed.

"I suppose we'd better get these back to the library," Larry said, gazing down at the books.

"We'd better tell Goon first," Fatty said. "He'll want to see these lying here in the field before we collect them all up and return them. We'd better not mess with the crime scene. I'm just glad _we_ found them, not him."

"Did you search for clues?" Pip asked suddenly. "Footprints and things like that? It was raining last night, and—"

"Of course we searched for clues!" Bets said, almost indignantly. "Fatty made sure we stayed well back while he looked about."

"But there's nothing here," said Fatty, disappointed. "The grass is too long and thick for footprints, and there doesn't seem to be anything at all in the way of other clues. No scraps of cloth with buttons attached, no bits of paper with messages on...nothing at all. Just these books."

Pip suddenly sucked in a breath and glanced at Daisy. Fatty knew instantly that he'd remembered or thought of something important. "We met Old Clear-Orf out in the alley," said Pip. "He was looking for clues. And, Fatty—he said he'd found one!"

Fatty frowned. "Found one? What, just now? After we'd all been there?"

"He tapped his pocket and looked all smug," Daisy confirmed. "He's definitely found _something_—but exactly what we have no idea."

"Did you ask him?" asked Bets.

"Of course we did," Pip said, sounding annoyed. "But he refused to tell us. Looked quite pleased with himself."

"Did he now," said Fatty quietly, an idea coming to him. "You know, we're actually trespassing on school grounds. We shouldn't tell him we've been here. It might be better to tell him we spotted the books from Union Street, as we walked by just the other side of the iron railing."

"Yes!" Pip agreed. "We could say we spotted the books, knew instantly they'd been stolen from the library, and climbed over to investigate."

"Or," Fatty went on, a familiar feeling of glee creeping over him, "we could say we saw the books from Union Street as we walked past—but stayed well clear of them. We'll say we were afraid to climb over the railing into the school grounds because we knew we'd be trespassing, and besides, we didn't want to contaminate a possible crime scene."

Four blank faces stared at him.

"What are you getting at?" asked Larry, scratching his head.

"Well, we wouldn't want to prevent Mr Goon from finding all the clues, would we?" Fatty said reasonably. "If there are any clues here to find, they should be found by a fine officer of the law. Don't you agree?"

Now the four blank faces developed slow grins. "We'll leave false clues!" Bets said happily. "Just like we did when that Siamese cat disappeared, and we shoved a load of useless clues in through the bars of the cage."

"And like we did for Ern when we sent him up Christmas Hill after staging a false light show the night before," Larry added.

Ern was Mr Goon's nephew—and he had been a lot of fun to tease when he had come to stay in Peterswood.

Daisy clapped her hands. "Oh, it'll be fun! What shall we leave?"

Fatty glanced around to make sure no one was about. "How about this bag the sausage rolls came in? We'll tuck it under the pile of books, so it looks like it was left here by the intruder last night rather than just, say, blown across the grass from the street. We wouldn't want Old Clear-Orf thinking _we'd_ left it behind. Instead he'll think someone bought something from the bakery yesterday, and then broke into the library later that night and sat here going through them while eating a bun or pastry or something."

"That doesn't make sense," said Larry, frowning. "The bakery shuts at five. The library wasn't robbed until...well, we don't know yet, do we? But it can't have been until it was dark, which would have been after eight—probably much later. Why would someone carry food around for at least three hours?"

Fatty laughed, imagining Mr Goon's puzzled expression as he tried to work that one out. "That's why I like the idea of leaving the bag as a clue," he said mischievously. "All right, what else? Anyone?"

As he tucked the bag right under the middle of the pile of books, Bets dug into her pocket and produced a boiled sweet with a red wrapper. "Our burglar dropped this too," she said with a serious face. "He was very hungry. The pastry wasn't enough, so he got stuck into his boiled sweets."

Everyone laughed as Bets dropped the sweet onto the grass. It slipped down between the blades and was almost lost from sight—but Fatty was sure it would be found if Mr Goon searched hard enough.

Then Pip chortled. "Got a pen and piece of paper?" he asked Fatty. Of course Fatty did. He handed it over and watched with interest as Pip wrote solemnly.

"There," said Pip, letting the piece of paper flutter down onto the pile of books. Everyone craned the necks to read what it said. It lay face up, and on it was a short paragraph of text:

All about crime and detection. Blue cover, red lettering. Quite thick. Can't remember title.

They all roared with laughter. "That's a stroke of genius!" Larry said, thumping Pip on the shoulder. "Now Goon will think the burglar had specific orders about which book to steal—but because he didn't know the exact title he decided to take the lot and go through them later..."

He trailed off as Fatty turned to stare at him very seriously.

Fatty felt a flutter of excitement in his stomach. "That could be the exact reason all these books were stolen," he said quietly. "Maybe he _was_ looking for one in particular, but didn't know which one. Maybe he brought them all out to a quiet place, searched through them one by one, and finally found what he wanted. He took it, and left the rest."

There was a silence. Fatty shook himself and glanced about. "Come on, we should clear the area. And we'd best avoid going back through the hole in the fence in case we bump into Goon. Let's hop over those railing and walk down Union Street to the library, then go out the back way to the alley. And when we speak to Old Clear-Orf, we must make sure he sees to it that _all_ these books are returned to the library."

"So we can check them off against Mrs Sharple's inventory and find out which book is missing," Daisy said.

Fatty grinned. "First class, Daisy. Now come on, everyone—let's make haste."

They climbed over the iron railing, which stood just under six feet high, and hurried down the road to the library. A white van was parked by the side of the road outside the little gate that led into the back garden. Tippington's Glazing was marked in large block lettering on the side. When the Five crowded through the gate they came across two men at the rear window fitting a sheet of thick plywood to the window frame.

One of the men glanced at them as they filed past, and a frown crept across his face. "'Ere, you know the library's closed, dontcha? There's a sign up round the front."

Fatty smiled pleasantly. "We're here to help Mrs Sharple. How long do you think it will be before the glass is replaced?"

The man swept a hand through his tousled brown hair. He was unshaven, with a ruddy complexion and large shaggy eyebrows. Fatty guessed he was in his thirties. "Probably tomorrow morning," he said with a shrug. "Got a lot on at the moment."

Bets seemed confused. "But why go to the trouble of fitting a big sheet of wood when you could just fit the glass instead? Wouldn't that save you time?"

The second man chortled and hammered a nail into the ply halfway up the frame. He seemed to be a young, skinny fellow, maybe an apprentice, but he continued with his work without looking round.

The first man smiled at Bets, and suddenly he looked much more friendly. His eyes twinkled. "If we could come out and cut glass as easy as we can cut wood, it would save us all a lot of time," he agreed. "But we gotta measure up the frame, see, and then go away and cut the glass carefully back at the shop. In the meantime we fit a sheet of wood in case it rains or gets windy."

"Oh," said Bets. She beamed. "I just assumed windows were all standard sizes and you just brought one of each type along."

The second man chortled again, and the first swept a hand once more through his tousled hair. "If it was only that simple, miss." He gave the others a nod and turned back to his work, digging a couple of nails out of his pocket and driving one into the ply along the top edge.

Fatty led the way into the library, and behind him he heard Pip whisper to Bets, "You really are a dolt sometimes. Honestly, don't you know anything?"

Mrs Sharple was standing by the crime section with hands on hips and an irritated frown across her face. "Looks like Mrs Sharple has figured out which books were stolen," said Fatty. "I'm going to go and find Mr Goon; he's probably still up the alley somewhere. You all go in and tell Mrs Sharple we've found the missing books, and then meet back at the fence outside the school."

"Right you are," Larry said, and saluted smartly.

Fatty grinned and headed back out the door to the alley. Mr Goon was about halfway along, a distant figure heading towards him. Evidently he had finished his careful search of the alley and was returning to the scene of the crime.

Fatty waved to him. "Mr Goon!"

"You clear orf!" came the thunderous reply. Instantly a dog started barking behind the fence of the garden immediately next to him and Mr Goon jumped, his helmet almost falling off.

Fatty sauntered up the alley and stopped by the hole in the fence, his hands in his pockets. The red-faced policeman eventually stomped up to him. "What do you want? Why don't you clear orf and let me go about my business in peace? You kids are always—"

"I found the stolen books," said Fatty mildly. "They're in the old school field. We spotted them as we passed by along Union Street. Would you like to see?"


	6. Mr Goon on the job

**6. Mr Goon on the job**

Mr Goon's mouth dropped open. He peered through the chain fence at the tangle of bushes beyond. "You found the stolen books? In the old school, you say? _This_ old school?"

"I don't know of any other old schools around here," said Fatty. He glanced down and feigned surprise. "Why, look, Mr Goon—a hole in the fence! That'll save a long trip down the alley, through the library garden, and back up Union Street. Let's hop through here and I'll show you where the books are."

With that he ducked and scampered through the tight space, ignoring Mr Goon's protest. He threaded his way through the bushes and emerged into the school field once more. There he waited, listening with delight to Mr Goon's pants and struggles and exclamations of annoyance. The bushes suddenly rustled loudly and a large angry policeman burst through in a shower of leaves and twigs.

Fatty fought to contain his laughter. Old Clear-Orf had a branch sticking out of his jacket, dirt around his knees, and his forehead was perspiring freely.

"Why'd you take off like that for?" the policeman complained loudly. "Crawling through small spaces and disappearing into the bushes..."

"I just thought you'd like to find the stolen books before the crime scene is disturbed," Fatty said innocently.

"Well, I do," Mr Goon mumbled. "So where are these here books?"

"This way."

Fatty led Mr Goon across the field towards the shed. As they approached, Larry, Daisy, Pip and Bets appeared on the street outside the grounds. They waved and pressed themselves against the railing with big grins on their faces. Fatty stifled a snort of laughter; they were a funny sight. How Mr Goon must detest 'interfering kids'!

"Poking their noses in again," Mr Goon grumbled on cue, a little out of breath with the fast walk across the field. "Meddling as usual. Nosey little toads, the lot of you."

Fatty turned to him, looking hurt. "Mr Goon, we found the books for you! Would you have preferred it if we _hadn't_ come to get you?"

Mr Goon didn't answer.

They arrived at the pile of books outside the small hut, and Mr Goon took charge. He stopped Fatty in his tracks and commanded him to stay away, then slowly paced around the crime scene with his eyes on the ground.

Giggles came from the railing. "Isn't he _careful_," Daisy was saying. "Look how he checks every blade of grass for clues."

"You can tell a lot from the way a blade of grass is flattened," said Larry solemnly.

"Yes," Pip added, "some people flatten them more than others, depending on weight. Take Mr Goon, for instance—"

"Will you CLEAR ORF!" shouted Mr Goon suddenly, swinging round. His neck had gone purple. "This 'ere is a crime scene and it's got to be checked for clues!" He snorted and started mumbling under his breath, resuming his search. "But you kids wouldn't understand police procedure. Always hanging about and meddling with the law. Getting under my feet all the time—"

He stopped suddenly, staring at something. Then he bent and picked up something small and red—Bets' boiled sweet. "A-ha!"

There was an explosion of stifled giggles from the railing, and Fatty put a hand over his mouth and noisily cleared his throat. Mr Goon was oblivious. He stared in fascination at the sweet, his eyes gleaming, and then he took out a small envelope and placed the sweet carefully inside.

When he placed the envelope in his breast pocket, Fatty remembered what Pip had said about another clue Mr Goon had found in the alley. What could it be? And how come Fatty and the others had missed it? That was most annoying!

Mr Goon knelt by the books and peered at them with interest. "Looks like they're all from one section," he said to no one in particular. Fatty guessed he was just talking aloud to himself, forgetting about the others. "So our burglar had an interest in books about crime, did he? Well, that says something, that does!"

"Such as?" Fatty asked politely.

Mr Goon's head snapped round, looking surprised. Then he scowled. "You still here? Why don't you all clear orf now? You're not needed."

Fatty smiled. "Certainly." He sauntered off across the field to the railing, calling back over his shoulder as he went. "Oh, and Mr Goon—please don't strain yourself getting all those books back to the library. There must be forty or fifty of them. Would you like me to bring you a bag?"

"Ah, now, wait a second," said Mr Goon, his voice suddenly very warm and buttery. "Perhaps it would do you kids good to see how a real policeman does his job. Why don't you stick around while I analyse the crime scene? I shouldn't be long. And then, er, if you like you can all help me get these books back to Mrs Sharple."

"How kind," said Larry, and the others chortled.

The next ten minutes were amusing. Mr Goon made a great show of looking important and thoughtful, occasionally rubbing his chin and saying "Ah!" a lot, as if he was putting two and two together and building a profile of the burglar from what few clues he saw on the ground. He even poked around in the shed for a while, but it was empty apart from a few spades with cobwebs all over them. The door had been open, but Fatty privately guessed some old tramp had been using it as a place to sleep.

Just when it looked like Mr Goon wasn't going to find the scrap of paper Pip had dropped on top of the books, it showed up. It had blown across the grass a little way. When a breeze picked it up and carried it further across the field, Mr Goon hurried after it and pounced heavily.

When he read it, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Coo, look at that. Now, that's a _proper_ clue, that is."

"What is it?" Fatty asked, stepping closer.

Mr Goon almost forgot himself and held out the paper for Fatty to see—but then he snatched it back. "Er, it's a vital clue, but it's important police business and therefore confidential, so I can't show you. I'm sure you understand."

He looked pleased himself as he stood up and pocketed the note. "All right, you kids. Let's get these here books back to the library."

Larry and Pip shot over the fence at once and rushed to help Fatty collect up the books. As they did so, the paper baker's bag was revealed and Fatty stopped.

"Mr Goon, is that another clue?"

The policeman frowned and bent to stare at the bag. He sniffed. Then he picked it up and studied it. "Why, this is from the bakery at the end of the alley," he said triumphantly. "So the burglar must have visited there before stealing the books. I might be able to get a description of the man."

As he stuffed the bag into another pocket, Fatty frowned and continued picking up books and stacking them in Larry's and Pip's arms. After a while they staggered off to the fence and handed them all through to Daisy and Bets, then returned for more. Meanwhile a gnawing sensation was tugging at Fatty's stomach. He suddenly felt guilty about the false clues. Why, oh why, had they left them? Superintendent Jenks would not be impressed when it all came out. Mr Goon was a blunderer by nature, and it was a lot of fun to send him off wild goose chases...but leaving false clues at the scene of a crime was more than just a prank; it was actually a very serious offence. What would Old Clear-Orf call it?—perverting the course of justice?

Heavy-hearted, Fatty collected up the last few books and handed them through the fence. Then he followed Larry and Pip over the railing and joined Daisy and Bets on the pavement. They divided up the books so that the boys had larger stacks than the girls, then turned to Mr Goon.

He stood empty-handed in the field, looking at the fence with a frown on his face.

"Problem, Mr Goon?" Fatty asked.

Mr Goon waved his hands airily. "You kids get along to the library and return those books. I'm going to take another little look around here before I go."

"You could try the gate if you don't want to tackle the fence," Fatty suggested. "I think the gates are probably locked, but you never know. Or you could squeeze through that tiny gap back into the alley."

Mr Goon's face reddened again as a number of giggles filled the air. "Thanks for your help," he said through gritted teeth. "You clear orf now. Tell Mrs Sharple I'll be along later."

The Find-Outers headed back to the library. Fatty was so lost in thought that he hardly noticed when everyone stopped talking and went quiet. "Are you all right, Fatty?" asked Bets.

"What? Oh. Well, I was just having second thoughts about leaving those clues for Goon," said Fatty. He groaned. "Why did we do it? What were we thinking? We'll get into awful trouble when this comes out. Remember when we left clues for Old Clear-Orf when Dark Queen disappeared from her cat house? It was fun—but embarrassing when we had to own up afterwards. And then we left clues for Ern up Christmas Hill..."

"Still," Pip said, "at least Mr Goon has one up on us. He has a _real_ clue, that we somehow missed."

"That's true," said Fatty. "That makes me feel a little better. Although it shouldn't. I'm annoyed at myself for not spotting whatever it was!"

"It was probably a worthless clue anyway," said Daisy. "You know how Old Clear-Orf is. He probably picked up an old lemonade bottle that's been there ten years."

Everyone laughed. They turned in once more at the library, noting that the glaziers had gone, and headed inside. Mrs Sharple was amazed, delighted and horrified all at once when she saw her precious books being stacked on a table.

"You found them! But where were they? Oh, it's lovely to have them back—but oh dear, look at the state of them! This one's corners are bent, and these pages are torn—and this one has its dust jacket missing! Some people have no respect!"

"Mrs Sharple," said Fatty in his most grown-up voice, "we must check these books off against your list and see which one has been stolen. That might give us some kind of clue as to _why_ it was stolen. Maybe the last person to check it out had something to do with the burglary."

"But why?" said Bets, puzzled. "Why one earth would someone check out a book, then return it, and then want to steal it? And why steal _all_ of the books rather than just that one?"

"It's a real mystery," said Larry, and he winked at her. Bets beamed.

Mrs Sharple produced a leather-bound register listing every book in the library. She opened it with reverence, and the children crowded round. The pages were filled with tiny, neat writing. Each book title was listed alongside its author, and it took about ten minutes to compare the pile of stolen books against those listed in the register.

There were eight books missing, and Fatty noted them on a sheet of paper. At first the Find-Outers were startled so many had been stolen, but then Mrs Sharple explained that some of those books might be checked out. She had a separate list of borrowed books, and she went to fetch it.

Fatty nodded. "I'm slacking," he said. "I have three of those books myself." He pointed at the short list he'd made. "See, this one, this one, and...yes, this one. So there are now only five books to account for."

Mrs Sharple returned with her register of borrowed books, and they checked it against Fatty's list. "Yes, see, this one is being borrowed by Jack Crowder," she said, apparently forgetting all about her strict library privacy rules. Or maybe, Fatty thought idly, she realised that the details needed to be disclosed since a crime had been committed.

She went on. "These three are currently being borrowed by Peter Westlake, a very nice young chap who comes in regularly. He's a college student, you know, and I believe he's doing some sort of essay on crime at the moment. He has the most darling Jack Russell dog by the name of Purdy. She only has one eye, and—"

"So we have one book missing," said Fatty. "Which one is it, Mrs Sharple? What's it called?"

"Well, now," Mrs Sharple said, staring at her list. "The final book is being borrowed by a lady called Miriam Strider. So they're all accounted for."

The Find-Outers exchanged astonished glances. "You mean there aren't _any_ missing?" asked Daisy. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, quite sure," said Mrs Sharple, snapping her leather book shut. She sounded chirpy. "So that's good news. Although I'm really annoyed that all these lovely books got so badly treated. Just look at them. Bent, dog-eared, dirty, torn here and there..."

She went off with her precious lists and left the children standing there in silence.

Fatty shook his head. "Well, I didn't expect that. I felt sure one book would be missing. Now we're back to the original question: why would someone break in, steal a bunch of books, and then dump them all straight away? Ideas, anyone?"

"Maybe there was something _inside_ one of the books," Bets suggested. "A letter, maybe. Or a photograph. Something that someone placed inside a book for safe-keeping, then forgot it and returned the book."

"And had to break in to steal it?" Pip said scornfully. "Why would someone do that? They could just drop by anytime and thumb through the books until they found what they were looking for."

"But it's the only idea we have," Fatty said, patting Bets on the shoulder. "And there might be something in it. We should consider all options, Pip, however unlikely."

Bets beamed and circled her arm around Fatty's. Pip looked glum.

Mr Goon chose that moment to stomp in through the rear door. He looked hot and bothered. He marched straight past the Find-Outers without even seeing them and tapped Mrs Sharple on the shoulder. "Blue book with red lettering," he announced. "Did the missing book have a blue cover with red lettering?"

"I...I don't know what you mean," said Mrs Sharple, backing away. "There _are_ no missing books, Mr Goon. They're all accounted for. We have fifty-six in total, of which eight are checked out by members. Frederick has three of them, and the other five are being borrowed by three other people."

"I'll want their names," Mr Goon said pompously. "It's important. The thief was after a crime book with a blue cover and red lettering, quite thick, and if you say all the books that were stolen are accounted for, well, that means the thief didn't find the one he wanted. Which means one of your library members must be borrowing it."

Fatty's mouth dropped open. He glanced around at the others and saw that they were thinking the same thing. Mr Goon might have inadvertently got the right idea! Perhaps it _was_ being borrowed. Fatty had three books himself; what if he had the very book the thief was after? Mr Goon was after a blue book with red lettering thanks to Pip's false clue, but apart from that he was possibly on the right track.

The Find-Outers hung back while Mr Goon majestically wrote down the names and addresses of the other three borrowers. Then he turned to go, and suddenly saw them. "Ho! You're still here, then, loitering in the shadows."

Fatty glanced about, wondering which shadows the policeman was talking about.

"I'm leaving now," Mr Goon said grimly, "and I don't want you hanging about any more than necessary. You clear orf and keep your noses out of this here business. If I catch you meddling, you'll be for it."

"Right-o," said Fatty, saluting. "We promise we won't meddle or hang about any more than necessary. What's more, we'll keep our noses well clear of anything they shouldn't be poking into."

Mr Goon stared at him, then muttered "Gah!" under his breath and stalked out.


	7. Another burglary

**7. Another burglary**

Mr Goon went out the front door to collect his bicycle, and was startled to find a couple of people with books under their arms peering through the glass at him.

"'Ere, what are you up to, peering through windows?" asked Mr Goon suspiciously as he yanked the door open.

A middle-aged man with thin grey hair frowned. "We're just wondering why the library door's locked."

"Because the library's _closed_," Mr Goon said, jabbing a finger at the sign. "Can't you read? _That's_ why the door's locked. There's been a break-in, and we didn't want the general public tramping about everywhere, disturbing the evidence."

The other person, a young lady with long dark brown hair, gave him a hard stare. "There's no need to be so rude about it."

Mr Goon softened. With her brown eyes and freckles, she was actually a very pretty young lady, he thought. He cleared his throat. "Ah, well, sorry about that. Been a busy day. Got all hot and bothered tracking the criminals."

"You've been tracking them?" the man said. "Any luck? What did they steal?"

"That's official police business," Mr Goon said haughtily. "Now, the library's probably going to be closed for the rest of the day, so you'd best be on your way—"

As he spoke, Mrs Sharple suddenly appeared behind him. She turned the sign around so it said OPEN, then beamed at the two waiting library members. "Come on in," she said. "Very sorry to have kept you waiting."

They all disappeared inside and Mr Goon found himself alone on the doorstep all of a sudden. "Gah!" he said, and climbed on his bike.

It was exactly midday as Mr Goon rode home, thinking about all the clues he had collected that morning. Ah, he was well up on that toad of a boy, Frederick Trotteville! The best clue was the scrap of paper found near the books, evidently discarded by the burglar. It had clearly been written as an instruction to the burglar about which book to steal—a blue book with red lettering, quite thick, from the crime section. But because the title was unknown, the burglar had taken the lot and sorted through them one by one out in the old school field.

Although that seemed a little odd, thought Mr Goon. If a burglar had enough time to scoop the books off the shelves into a bag, why didn't he just glance at them as he did so, and take only those with blue covers?

Maybe because it was dark in the library at one o'clock in the morning! That was when a couple of neighbours behind the library had reported hearing glass breaking.

Anyhow, there wasn't a single book with a blue cover amongst those found in the school field—which meant that if there _was_ one, someone must be borrowing it. Mr Goon now had the names of those four library members in question—and that toad of a boy, Frederick Trotteville, was one of them.

The paper bag from the bakery was a vital clue as well. The burglar must have bought something to eat, then waited around until it was safe to break into the library...though why he waited so long was a mystery. The bakery closed at five, and the library was burgled six hours later. Maybe the staff at the bakery would remember a suspicious-looking character hanging about the area...

And the small boiled sweet in a red wrapper was a small but possibly significant clue. If Mr Goon came across anyone sucking on boiled sweets, well, that might just be the break he needed!

The footprint on the window sill was an awkward clue. It was difficult to check the underside of people's shoes without annoying them. Now, if he already had a suspect, he could _demand_ to check the pattern of his shoes...but he wasn't likely to just happen across that shoe pattern during his general enquiries.

Oh, and then there was that short length of coiled black wool, Mr Goon thought as he rode. He'd been walking up the alley, eyes fixed on the uneven paving slabs, looking for clues, when an overhanging branch had brushed against his helmet, almost knocking it off. Angrily he'd staggered back and righted himself, complaining out loud that the council should do something about that before the sharp ends of the branch took someone's eye out. He could almost imagine someone walking fast along the alley in the darkness and getting injured by that branch! Mr Goon was lucky he'd been wearing a helmet, or the twigs might have got snarled up in his hair, maybe scratched his face.

On closer inspection of the branch he'd found a short, curly loop of black wool dangling from the very end of the branch. Now where had _that_ come from? A black woolly hat, that's where! And who wore black woolly hats? Criminals, that's who! It was just the sort of thing suspicious types wore. Mr Goon judged it had to have been a grown-up who got caught on the branch because kids were short enough to wander by underneath without even noticing it.

Mr Goon had pondered for quite a bit, then carefully extracted the clue and placed it in an envelope, which he'd stuffed in his breast pocket. Right after that he'd become aware of two of those pesky kids—Philip Hilton and that girl they called Daisy—wandering down the alley towards him. They'd offered him a sausage roll and made his stomach growl with hunger. Gah!

When Mr Goon arrived at his home, where a large sign over the door read POLICE, he parked his bicycle and strode indoors. His housekeeper greeted him and announced he'd had several phone calls from a distraught man over at Green Meadows.

"It's the business offices," she clarified as Mr Goon wrote laboriously in his notebook.

He stopped and glared at her. "I _know_ what Green Meadows is. Now, what was his name?"

"Johnson," said the housekeeper, sullen now. "Clive Johnson. He deals in valuable coins or something. He has a small office there. Says he's been robbed."

"Right, I'm off then." Mr Goon went straight back out the door, climbed on his bike, and sailed away.

Five minutes later he arrived at Green Meadows, a new building for small business owners located at the end of the High Street. It was a long building with three floors, and looked as out of place as a cruise liner in a small fishing port. Mr Goon parked his bike outside the front doors and stomped into the lobby, where a caretaker was slowly mopping the floor.

A large sign on the wall listed all the businesses. Clive Johnson, proprietor of CJ Coins & Collectibles, was in Room 22 on the second floor. Mr Goon headed up the stairs.

He was panting by the time he knocked on the door of CJ Coins & Collectibles. A thin, wiry man with round glasses greeted him with a frightened look on his face. "Oh, good, you're here. Come in. I don't know what to do. My coins have gone!"

He wrung his hands nervously and paced the room as Mr Goon entered and left the door wide open behind him. Mr Johnson wore a casual v-neck jumper and, underneath, a shirt and tie. With his smart but casual brown corduroy trousers and brown shoes, he seemed comfortably well-dressed.

Mr Goon had a quick look around. The window had been smashed, and glass littered the floor, but the office was otherwise very tidy: a simple desk and chair, a low cupboard by the window, and a bookshelf along one wall. The polished wood floor had a simple rug in the middle. Everything was arranged neatly, with not a single thing out of place. Mr Johnson was a fastidious man, thought Mr Goon.

On the wall were various picture frames, and one was attached not with hooks but a couple of hinges. It stood open like a cupboard door, revealing a square hole in the wall. Inside the hole was a safe, which also stood open—and empty.

"Ho!" said Mr Goon at once. "A concealed safe, eh? And I take it your coins were stolen from there?"

"Yes, yes," Mr Johnson said, wringing his hands continuously, "but I don't understand _how_. For one thing no one knew that combination number but me. I didn't write it down—I committed it to memory. Far safer that way."

"Ah," said Mr Goon wisely.

"But someone's cracked the safe anyway. It's completely undamaged. Someone knew the number, or they guessed it."

"Ah," said Mr Goon again, thinking of professional safe crackers. He seemed to remember they used stethoscopes to _listen_ to the tumblers turning and clicking. It was a specialist job, that. "Was your office door locked when you arrived this morning?" he demanded.

"Yes," Mr Johnson said, nodding vigorously. "I arrived at about eight forty-five as always, and I noticed nothing wrong until I unlocked my door and walked in. Then I called you."

Mr Goon frowned. "So you called me first thing? Before nine?"

"Before nine, then again at half past nine, and again at ten," Mr Johnson agreed. He checked his watch. "Your assistant did inform me you were attending to another burglary, but...well, really, it's now after twelve."

"I'm aware of that," Mr Goon said stiffly. "I'm afraid there's only one of me, you know. If only your call had come in five minutes earlier, before Mrs Sharple's, I might have spent the morning here rather than at the library."

"The _library_ was broken into?" said Mr Johnson, looking astonished. His face reddened a little and he frowned. "Well, really, I think stolen coins are far more important than...than stolen library books!"

Mr Goon stared at him suspiciously. "How did you know books were stolen? I never mentioned that."

Mr Johnson rolled his eyes. "For goodness' sake! If someone broke into a shoe shop I would presume they had stolen shoes. If someone broke into a toy shop, I would presume they had stolen toys. And if someone—"

"Yes, yes, all right, Mr Johnson, thank you," Mr Goon interrupted, getting annoyed. "There's no need to get sarcastic. I'm only doing my duty and asking routine questions." He started to walk about the office. "Now, tell me about these stolen coins. Are they always kept in the safe?"

Mr Johnson sighed and sat behind his desk. "No. They're not mine. I'm simply evaluating them for a client—who, by the way, is coming this afternoon to collect them! Whatever am I going to say? Those coins are worth an absolute fortune."

Mr Goon stuck his head inside the safe. "When were they put in here?" he said, his voice sounding muffled. "And who knew about it besides yourself?"

"The client arrived yesterday afternoon at about two o'clock, far too late for a proper evaluation, so I said I'd put the coins in the safe and look at them again in the morning. No one else but myself and the client would have known about them."

"Or the safe," Mr Goon added.

"Well, actually, the safe itself is no big secret," said Mr Johnson. "A lot of the rooms have them built in like this. I have to pay extra for it. But generally speaking I try to keep it out of sight. My client knew there was a safe, for instance, but I didn't tell where it was."

"And your client's name is...?" said Mr Goon.

"James Fisher," said Mr Johnson. "He recently moved into Peebles Manor—a very fine gentleman indeed. A client like that could bring a lot of business my way...that is, if I manage to keep hold of his valuable coin collection without losing it."

Mr Johnson sighed heavily and looked gloomy.

Mr Goon crossed to the window and looked out. There was no sign of a ladder. And now that he thought about it, it was extremely unlikely someone would hoist one around in the dead of night in the middle of a built up area. Suddenly Mr Goon remembered what one of his books had told him when questioning people: _trust no one!_ He particularly remembered that people who reported burglaries sometimes staged their own break-ins for insurance purposes. Mr Johnson was probably aiming to sell the coins on the black market and make off with a fortune.

"Well," he said loudly, turning around, "we'll soon have this straightened out. Ho, yes."

Mr Johnson looked at him hopefully. "You know who stole the coins?"

Mr Goon drew himself up and glared at the coin appraiser. "It seems obvious to me, Mr Johnson, that there are only two people who _could_ have stolen the coins. Mr Fisher—and yourself."

Mr Johnson stared in amazement at the stolid policeman. "Are you mad? Me? Steal the—Are you out of your mind? Why would I possibly want to do that, and then _report_ it?"

"Come now, Mr Johnson, don't make me out to be an idiot. I can spot a fraud when I see one. You stole the coins, hid them away somewhere, and staged a burglary by smashing the window. No doubt you're planning to flee the country with those coins and retire early. Well, I'm on to you."

Mr Johnson had stood up and was opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish.

But Mr Goon was very sure of himself and went on briskly, without realising that someone was standing in the doorway. "Ho, yes, Mr Johnson. By your own admittance, you're the _only one_ who knew the combination to the safe. And you certainly knew what the coins were worth! This is an open and shut case. It's quite obvious to me that you smashed your own window from the inside and faked the whole thing—unless you're suggesting, of course, that the burglar brought with him a twenty foot ladder?"

Snorting, Mr Goon gave a nasty smile. "Perhaps he broke in, spent time cracking the safe, stole the coins—and took his twenty foot ladder away again down the street?"

Mr Johnson finally found his voice. He spoke quietly, shaking and furious. "I expect he climbed the drainpipe."

Mr Goon snorted. "Climbed the drainpipe! A likely story. You'll be hearing from me, Mr Johnson. I'll be back as soon as soon I've spoken with Mr James Fisher and cleared his good name."

And with that, Mr Goon stalked out past a very surprised-looking man in the doorway. "Er, excuse me," the stranger said. "I couldn't help overhearing, and I really think you've got the wrong end of the stick."

Mr Goon rounded on him. "And who might you be, sir?" he said, struggling to hold his temper. Who did these people think they were?

"Ted Masters," said the man. He stuck out his hand, which Mr Goon merely glared at. "I'm an accountant. I work in the office next door, and have known Clive Johnson for, well, years now. He couldn't possibly have faked a burglary! The very idea is ridiculous!"

Mr Goon felt the back of his neck heating up. Ridiculous, eh? He clenched his fists and leaned towards the startled accountant until he was inches from his face. "Are you a policeman, sir? A detective, perhaps? No? Oh, yes—you're an _accountant_. Good with numbers, are you, sir? Well, that's nice to know." He jabbed the man in the shoulder. "In case you haven't noticed, sir, I _am_ a policeman—and I can sniff out criminals a mile away!"

He turned his back on Mr Masters, cast one last look into the office where an astonished Mr Johnson stood, and marched out.


	8. What can be so important about a book?

**8. What can be so important about a book?**

When Mr Goon stalked out of the library at almost exactly twelve o'clock and had some sort of argument with two waiting library members on the doorstep, Mrs Sharple exclaimed something about "those poor dears" and rushed to invite them in. They ambled over to the front desk and Mrs Sharple checked in their books. Then, as the visitors lost themselves amongst the bookshelves, Fatty approached Mrs Sharple and spoke in an offhand sort of way.

"You know, Mrs Sharple...I can't help wondering about those other books."

"What do you mean, dear?" Mrs Sharple replied, peering over her glasses at him as she meticulously went through the pile of books that had been stolen and dumped in the field. She smoothed out a cover and brushed flecks of dirt and grass off.

"Well..." said Fatty, frowning. Behind him the others had put on innocent expressions. "It occurs to me that the burglar was after a specific book, but couldn't find it—which is why he dumped the lot of them in the field."

"Yes?"

"Well, he's not likely to just give up searching, is he?" Fatty reasoned. "The burglar is still on the lookout."

Bets piped up, "You mean, he might come back and break in again later?"

Mrs Sharple's hand flew to her mouth.

Fatty nodded. "That's right, Bets. But Mr Goon is on the case and will arrest him in no time."

"Hopefully," Larry added.

"His track record isn't too good though," Pip said. "I think we nearly always solve the mystery and catch the criminals before Mr Goon does."

"Yes," Daisy said, nodding, "and that's why we get on so well with Superintendent Jenks."

"You know Superintendent Jenks?" asked Mrs Sharple, surprised.

"Oh yes," said Fatty. "He often drops by to see if we've solved any mysteries lately in the Peterswood area."

The librarian pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. "And what about this case? Are you likely to solve this one? And catch the burglar?"

Fatty looked round at the others. "Well, it's hard to say. To tell you the truth, Mrs Sharple, we don't have much chance unless we can get a look at those remaining books. The thief was obviously after one of them, and it would be helpful to take a look at them and see if we can't figure out what he was after. If we find out what he was after, we might have a lead to follow."

Mrs Sharple looked down at the file containing the list of borrowed books. "I suppose I could phone those people and have them return the books as soon as possible."

Fatty nodded slowly. "Yes. Or you could phone them and say you're going to have them collected." He waved around at his friends. "Tell them we'll be along this afternoon to pick them up, if you like. We'll be happy to go and get them for you."

Mrs Sharple pondered for a moment, and then sighed. "I suppose that would be all right. I do want this burglar caught, so if you think it would help to look at the books..."

"It couldn't hurt," said Fatty. "I'll keep the books safely at home with the three I've already got. So I'll have eight books at my house, Mrs Sharple, and I'll return them as soon as we've finished examining them."

Mrs Sharple opened her file, and Fatty dutifully got out his notebook and pen. "I suppose Mr Goon won't mind you collecting these books and taking them home?" asked Mrs Sharple.

"He knows where I am," Fatty said truthfully. "I'm sure he'll want to see them, and he can come round to my house and collect them anytime he likes."

Mrs Sharple seemed satisfied. "I already gave you the names, didn't I? Let's see. Apart from yourself there's Jack Crowder, Peter Westlake, and Miriam Strider. Are you ready for their addresses?"

Fatty wrote carefully, feeling a surge of excitement. Now they could go and collect those books and study them. One of them _had_ to be important somehow...unless, like Bets said, one had simply contained an envelope within its pages, or something like that—perhaps an important piece of paper that was worth breaking and entering for. Fatty remembered the time they had tackled the case of a strange bundle that had been thrown into the river one dark night to ensure a burglar couldn't find it. The bundle turned out to be a collection of clothes belonging to a ventriloquist's doll...and hidden carefully in one of its shoes was a tiny list of names. Those names had been sought after by some Very Important People indeed, and had something to do with the security of the country.

So it was highly possible that a scrap of paper hidden within a book could be highly sought after, worth the risk of breaking into a library. Unfortunately, by the same logic, this meant the burglar could _already_ have found what he wanted—not an actual book, but something _inside_ a book.

On the other hand it could, after all, be a particular book the burglar was after—one that wasn't in the library at the time of the break-in.

His mind whirling with all the possibilities, Fatty thanked the kindly librarian and ushered the others out the door, where they stood on the pavement to make plans. "We'll get on this straight away," he said, glancing at his watch. "It's ten past twelve. We still have a little time before lunch, so I think if we split up we can go and get those books back from the library members and meet up this afternoon."

"Do we have to interview them as well?" asked Daisy, looking worried.

Fatty thought for moment. "I don't suppose we do. They're not suspects, and I don't believe they would know anything of use. But double-check they haven't found anything while skimming through the books—scraps of paper, envelopes, that sort of thing. If so, we definitely _must_ have it!"

Pip glanced at his own watch, frowning. "We need to hurry then. Mother will be furious if we're late. You know how she is. Bets and I will go to one of the addresses, and then we can collect the book and head straight home together."

"Right," said Fatty. "You go and see Jack Crowder then. He lives at 23 Pike Lane, which is probably the closest to your house, I think. Jack's got one of the books. Larry and Daisy can collect another book from Miriam Strider over at—" Fatty quickly checked his notes. "—Yes, here we are. Dogwood Cottage in Holly Lane."

"Holly Lane!" Bets exclaimed. "We solved a mystery there once!"

"We did," said Fatty, grinning. "Now, let's get moving. I'll go and see Peter Westlake. He's got another three books. And of course I have the remaining three books in my shed. That makes eight in total."

"But wait a minute," said Larry, scratching his head. "If we're looking for something like a scrap of paper or an envelope jammed between the pages, well, what if the burglar already found something like that in one of the books he stole? It would explain why he left them all in the field. Maybe he _did_ find what he was looking for after all!"

Fatty nodded, pleased. "Well reasoned out, Larry. And of course I've already considered that. But since we have no other leads, I suggest we do what we can and collect those remaining books. You never know, we might find something of use—and if nothing else we can eliminate them from our enquiries."

He climbed on his bike. "See you all this afternoon. Be at my shed by two."

Fatty headed off to Peter Westlake's home at 101 Springwater Close. It was a nice little cul-de-sac, and the Westlake house was at the very end. It was a little rundown compared to neighbouring houses, with a front garden that needed mowing and old flower beds that were overgrown with weeds. A garage stood at the end of the drive, and the large doors were wide open. A burly man was polishing a large shiny motor bike.

"Hello," said Fatty cheerfully, walking up the drive. "I've come to see Peter Westlake."

The man twisted round and scowled at him. He was completely bald with an unshaven face, and looked a nasty piece of work. "What for?" he said in a curt voice.

Startled, Fatty stared hard at the man. He looked familiar. "The library sent me," said Fatty, racking his brains. "I've come to pick up a few books. Did Mrs Sharple telephone you?"

"How should I know?" the man growled, and threw down his rag. He climbed to his feet and stood looking down at Fatty. He was forty-something, and seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face. He nodded towards the front door of the house. "Go and knock. Peter's in."

"Thanks," said Fatty politely.

He headed up the path and knocked on the door. Immediately a tremendous high-pitched barking started up inside, and moments later a small weight thudded against the inside of the door. The barking went on and on, and Fatty laughed to himself. This must be how visitors to the Trottevilles' are greeted by Buster, he thought. He listened with amusement to the scrabbling of small paws on the door. The paintwork must be scratched to bits!

After a while the door opened and a youthful man stood there, holding onto a small one-eyed Jack Russell. Oh!—Fatty suddenly remembered what Mrs Sharple had said about Peter's dog, whose name was Purdy. Peter was in his late teens—a college student, Fatty recalled, writing an essay on crime.

"Yes?" said Peter over the barking. "Purdy, settle down. Quiet now."

"Good afternoon," said Fatty. "I'm here on Mrs Sharple's behalf. I've been sent to collect—"

"Oh, the books, yes. She said you'd be round." Peter looked worried, and he swallowed. "She didn't say much, just that she was sending someone round to collect them. She didn't sound her usual cheerful self, and I was worried that..."

He seemed uncertain of what to say, and Fatty put on a nonchalant face and bent to stroke Purdy's head. She whined and pawed at him, trying to get out of her master's grip. "Worried about what?" asked Fatty.

"Well, I know how fussy she is over her library books," said Peter, "and when my dad ruined one yesterday I was sure I was going to have to pay for it. I should have just owned up, but—"

"Wait, stop," said Fatty, confused. "I don't understand."

Peter sighed and lowered his voice, jerking his head towards the bald man out by the garage. "My dad has no respect for books. They're for sissies, he reckons. He keeps telling me I read too much, and I should get out and earn some money. He says I take after my mother—and I do! Mum used to read a lot...before she died."

Fatty instantly felt sorry for the poor young man. So he lived with his father, that bald-headed nasty piece of work. Life must be pretty miserable, he thought.

"Purdy, will you sit still!" Peter pushed the dog inside and closed the door behind him, standing on the doorstep. "So anyway, yesterday my dad got a phone call and looked about for something to write on—and he turned one of my library books over and scribbled on _that_. I couldn't believe it! By the time I realised what he was doing, he'd already done it. I don't think he knew it was a library book, but he wouldn't have cared anyway."

Fatty was silent for a moment. He felt he was on the edge of something very important here, although he wasn't yet sure what. "So...you're worried about returning a book that's been defaced?"

Peter shook his head. "I've already returned it. That was yesterday. It was due by five o'clock, and I was just getting ready to pop out to the library when Dad got the phone call—and ruined the book. I was furious, but he just sneered and said I should grow up and stop reading detective books. Then he grabbed his coat and went out."

Peter seemed almost thankful to get all this off his chest, and Fatty was very glad to hear the little tale without having to prompt for details.

"Anyway, soon after that I gathered the library books together and went out. But I didn't know if I should tell Mrs Sharple about it or not. I'm a college student, you know, and I don't have much money...and I can't afford to pay for a damaged book. So I decided to keep quiet about it and see if she noticed the scribble on the back."

"And did she?" asked Fatty breathlessly.

"No. She checked the books in and didn't notice, so that was that. I felt guilty afterwards, but I chose three more books and went on my way. And I didn't hear anything about it until fifteen minutes ago, when she called." Peter looked crestfallen. "I suppose she only just noticed the scribble and checked her records to see who borrowed that book last. She said she wanted my new books back straight away, probably to stop me ruining those too."

Fatty stood open-mouthed for a moment, then shook his head. He glanced at the burly bald man over by the garage, who was still polishing his motor bike. "Peter," Fatty said quietly, "it's important you tell me which book your dad scribbled on."

"_Confidence Tricksters_," said Peter without hesitation. "A really nice book about—"

"Yes, I think I've read it," Fatty interrupted. "Do you remember what your dad wrote on the back?"

Peter screwed up his face in thought. "Just a string of numbers and letters. I don't know what it meant. Why? Is it important?"

And suddenly Fatty remembered something. He knew where he'd seen that bald man before! He almost staggered with the realisation, and he grabbed hold of the doorframe as if to steady himself. Huge cogs were clunking into place in his mind.

Peter looked concerned. "Are you all right? You look pale."

"I'm fine," Fatty said shakily, and looked once more at Peter's father, Mr Westlake. Yes, he was definitely the man he'd seen at the library yesterday, just before closing time—the man who'd nearly knocked him over in the lobby.

Fatty composed himself. "Peter, what time did you return your books?"

But suddenly Peter looked suspicious. "Why are you so interested? Look, do you really need to take these other books today? I'm still writing my essay and wasn't finished with them."

Fatty nodded and decided to reveal the truth—or part of it. "The library was broken into last night, and several books were stolen. Mrs Sharple just wants all her borrowed books back so she check off her inventory."

Peter looked puzzled, and then nodded slowly as he disappeared inside to a volley barks.

Fatty glanced around again, and at that moment Mr Westlake looked up and caught him staring. Fatty smiled and nodded, and the man slowly went back to work polishing his bike.

Peter returned and handed the books over. "Here you are. Now I'd better get on. Essays don't write themselves, you know." He closed the door softly.

Fatty tucked the books under his arm and set off down the path, surreptitiously stealing a glance at the bald man as he went. He shuddered, climbed on his bike, and rode off with a LOT to think about!


	9. Mr Goon writes his reports

**9. Mr Goon writes his reports**

Mr Goon rode home from his visit to Green Meadows feeling triumphant. Ha! He'd nipped _that_ little affair in the bud. Trying to pull the wool over his eyes indeed! Mr Goon could spot a put-up job blindfolded. Why, that idiotic coin appraiser had actually admitted he was the _only one_ who knew the safe's combination! And only he and the owner of the coins, Mr James Fisher of Peebles Manor, knew they had been stashed in the safe. It was perfectly obvious the whole thing had been staged.

When he returned home and walked in, his housekeeper looked worried. "Superintendent Jenks phoned, Mr Goon. He wants you to phone him right away."

Mr Goon felt a shiver of excitement. What could the superintendent want with him? Maybe he wanted to talk to him about a promotion! Coo, yes—weren't all the recommendations being written up this week? Perhaps the superintendent wanted to make sure Mr Goon was ready for promotion.

He rushed to the telephone and dialled the superintendent's number. In moments he was put through. "Good morning, sir. You wanted to—"

"Ah, Goon," said a sharp, clear voice. "I've had a complaint against you from a man named Clive Johnson. He said you accused him of staging a break-in."

"Quite right, sir," said Mr Goon, indignation rising up. "The cheek of the man! Pretending he was robbed, wasting police time...and now complaining to Headquarters about me! Well, I'll be arresting him for fraud just as soon as I've checked with the owner of the coins, sir, a Mr James Fisher. You never know—"

"Goon, be quiet."

Mr Goon's mouth jaw fell, and he listened, stunned, as the superintendent went on.

"Really, Goon, this time you've gone too far. I listened to what the man had to say and can find no reason whatsoever why you would immediately jump to the conclusion he was making it all up, staging his own break-in. What possessed you to be rude to him and accuse him of such things before properly analysing the scene?"

"Sir—"

"No, save it for now. I'm coming round to see you, Goon, and we're going to have a chat. Make sure you have a full written report ready for me to take away. And, Goon..."

"Sir?" moaned Mr Goon.

"You had better have a very good explanation for this mess, or there'll be serious consequences. Do you understand me?"

The superintendent hung up with a sharp click.

Mr Goon groaned, put down the receiver, and put his head in his hands. Serious consequences? What did _that_ mean? Well, he'd just have to write out his report and be quick about it. Once the superintendent read the report, he'd understand the situation better and reach the same conclusion—that Mr Johnson had staged the whole thing. It was perfectly obvious.

Wasn't it? Mr Goon frowned, suddenly unsure of himself. Why was it obvious, exactly? He groaned again, and looked about desperately for something to sit on.

His housekeeper appeared as if by magic and took his arm, leading him into his drawing room, which he used as an office. He collapsed into a chair and leaned over the table, feeling shaky. "Oh, what have I done? He's coming over to have a chat, and says I must have some detailed reports written up. I'll be for the high jump. Instead of getting a promotion like I deserve, I'll end up at the unemployment office."

"Don't worry—I'll make you a nice cup of tea, Mr Goon," the housekeeper said soothingly. "The kettle's already boiled." She hurried off to the kitchen.

Mr Goon thought hard. Maybe he had been a _little_ short with that Johnson fellow. Maybe he should have at least _pretended_ to take him seriously, and examined the case carefully before jumping all over the man. But the facts spoke for themselves. For instance, only Mr Johnson knew the safe's combination—

Except that professional safe crackers could open safes without damage, he remembered. It was a specialist job, but it could be done. And of course, now that he thought about it, that Mr James Fisher fellow over at Peebles Manor might _possibly_ have mentioned to others he was having his valuable coins examined by a professional. He could have mentioned it down the pub, for instance, where all sorts of people would have overheard and guessed that there's only one man in the village who was qualified enough to—

Mr Goon groaned loudly again, and banged his head on the table over and over. Why did he always put his foot in it? Now he was in serious trouble. This was more than just failing to get to the bottom of a case; this was actually being openly rude and _blaming the victim_ for the crime! Now he'd made himself and the whole police department look bad.

The housekeeper came in with a pot of tea. "Here, Mr Goon. You get that inside you and calm yourself. It'll all work out, whatever it is." She shook her head. "Honestly, the nerve of that Mr Johnson! Fancy phoning the superintendent to complain about you, Mr Goon! Whatever did he say?"

Mr Goon snorted angrily, and then groaned in despair once more.

She patted his arm. "Never you mind about the superintendent," she said. "You just write those reports and put down the facts of the matter, and he'll soon see you were right all along."

"Yes," Mr Goon said, dazed. He looked at her and nodded slowly. "Yes, maybe you're right. Things always look better on paper, don't they? Things look more official-like." Not to mention writing reports gave him a chance to embellish things a little. If he was careful what he wrote, he could make the superintendent see things from Mr Goon's perspective—where it was obvious Mr Johnson had done the dirty deed.

Yes, he would get started right away. He thanked his housekeeper and waved her away, eager to get on. First he'd need to begin with the library case, which he was already well on top of. If he could only solve _that_ mystery before those annoying kids got too involved, the superintendent would surely give him a much-deserved promotion instead of an ear-bashing!

He placed all his clues in front of him on the desk along with his notebook and well-chewed pencil. Then he wrote a heading in big bold letters:

_CLUES RELATING TO STOLEN BOOKS_

Underneath he listed the items one by one, starting with the partial muddy footprint on the window sill at the back of the library, then the short length of curly black wool, probably from a hat, found snagged on an overhanging branch in the alleyway. Next he added the boiled sweet covered with red wrapping paper. Funny sort of clue, that. Didn't help much, unless he happened to come across someone sucking boiled sweets and wearing a black woolly hat.

He stared at the paper bag from the bakery for a moment, and then started writing. The burglar might have bought something to eat knowing he'd been hanging about the area all night. Not much to go on, but still, it looked good when he added it to his list.

He'd left his favourite clue till last: the scrap of paper evidently written by the person who had arranged the burglary. He laboriously copied the entire message into his notebook:

_All about crime and detection. Blue cover, red lettering. Quite thick. Can't remember title._

Mr Goon nodded. Good clue, that. Now his notes looked all proper and efficient.

He chewed the end of his pencil for a moment, and then wrote slowly:

_Burglar stole all books from crime section, but dumped them in old school field nearby. All books accounted for. Clearly the burglar didn't find the book he wanted (as noted above) so made off empty-handed. Enquiries indicate that there are eight more books from the crime section, one of which might be the one the burglar was after. These books are currently being borrowed as follows:_

_Jack Crowder (1 book)  
Peter Westlake (3 books)  
Miriam Strider (1 book)  
Frederick Trotteville (3 books)_

He stared grimly at the last name. It would be just Mr Goon's luck that Frederick toad-of-a-boy Trotteville would be borrowing the very book the burglar was after.

Mr Goon wondered suddenly if those kids had overheard him at the library, when he'd described that book to Mrs Sharple? He wouldn't be surprised. They'd been loitering in the shadows behind him, eavesdropping, sticking their noses in and meddling with the law. Gah!

But hopefully Mrs Sharple hadn't given them the names and addresses of those other library members. Mr Goon went to the telephone and phoned the library.

"Mrs Sharple? Yes, it's Mr Goon here. I wanted to warn you _not_ to give out any sensitive information to those kids that were in earlier, do you hear me? Such as the names and addresses of those other library members who are borrowing books from the crime section. I want to make it absolutely clear that—"

"But Mr Goon," said Mrs Sharple timidly, "I already gave the names to Frederick and his friends."

Mr Goon gripped the receiver hard and felt like shaking it. "You did _what?_ You gave—" He fought to control his temper. "All right. It can't be helped. But at least keep the addresses to yourself. This is very important police business and—"

"Er, well, they have the addresses too," Mrs Sharple interrupted.

Mr Goon let out a howl. "But WHY? Why would you do that? Why would you let five annoying, irritating kids have valuable, private information about your library members? Really, Mrs Sharple, this is not good enough. I'm a member myself, and—"

"But they were _ever_ so decent, offering to go and collect the remaining crime books from the other members," the librarian cooed down the telephone. "It's safer this way, you know. Frederick can keep hold of those books until the burglar is caught, and I know he's friends with that lovely man, Superintendent Jenks, so I assumed everything would be all right with you too, Mr Goon."

Mr Goon closed his eyes and, trembling with rage, spoke quietly into the telephone. "Right. Thank you. Good day."

He stomped back to the desk and sat down heavily. So that boy had stuck his big fat nose in again. That silly old woman was probably so frightened at the thought of another burglary that she'd handed Frederick the list of names and addresses straight away. And now that toad of a boy was one step ahead.

On the other hand...

Mr Goon thought for a moment, and slowly began to smile. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing after all. It was likely that none of the members had any idea why the books they were borrowing might be so important to the burglar. They were probably completely innocent, and therefore not worth interviewing. It was the books themselves Mr Goon wanted to see, rather than the library members.

So he'd let those annoying young _detectives_ go and collect the books together—and then Mr Goon would show up at the Trottevilles' and demand all eight books to be handed over. It would save him a lot of running about, and would be _very_ satisfying.

Rubbing his hands in glee, Mr Goon turned the page of his notebook and started working on the other case.

_CLUES RELATING TO STOLEN COINS_

Mr Goon stopped there, realising that he had no clues whatsoever. But that was hardly surprising; if Mr Johnson _had_ staged a robbery, then there wouldn't be any clues left by intruders. All the more reason to suspect the man! He clicked his tongue and started on suspects instead.

_SUSPECTS RELATING TO STOLEN COINS_

Underneath this heading he added the names Clive Johnson, Coin Appraiser, and James Fisher, Owner of Coins.

The list was short, though. He could stick that annoying accountant on there too, but he decided to hold off for a moment in case the superintendent questioned _why_ the accountant was on the list when there was no ready answer.

He started a new page headed _MOTIVES_ and, after a moment's thought, wrote:

_Greed. Clive Johnson acted very suspiciously indeed, appearing nervous and sweating profusely. When asked about his financial status, he refused to answer and I immediately put two and two together and thought about the value of those coins, which are said to be worth millions. Mr Johnson was also the only person with the combination to the safe, and one of only two people who knew where the coins were being held—and when they were being held there._

Mr Goon sucked the end of his pencil, nodding. That sounded good. Now, what about the owner, Mr Fisher?

_Owner chose a very odd time—well into the afternoon—to deliver the coins to Mr Johnson for evaluation. He must have known Mr Johnson would lock the coins away, and probably knew where—_

Mr Goon rubbed out the word 'probably' and continued.

_...and knew where the safe was located. I would conjecture, therefore, that the owner placed the coins in the safe keeping of Mr Johnson so that he could rob the place himself and blame someone else. Then he could quietly sell the coins AND claim money from the insurance company, effectively doubling the collection's value._

Pleased with himself, Mr Goon sat back and read his notes through. This was just a preliminary summary of each case, but it was starting to look good. Maybe he could come through this all right after all. He got stuck into the detailed, official reports, making sure to pad them out to make them look more thorough.

It was around two in the afternoon when Jenks pulled up outside. Mr Goon heard a sharp rapping on the door and rushed to answer it before the housekeeper could get there. He bumped into her in the hall and ushered back to the kitchen, then cleared his throat, collected himself, and opened the door wide.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said. "It's good to see you, sir. I have my reports written out, sir, and I think you'll agree with me on this when you read them, sir."

"Let's hope so, Goon," Superintendent Jenks said quietly as he entered. Mr Goon led him into the drawing room and offered him the most comfortable armchair. Then he handed his superior officer a sheaf of papers, his hand shaking a little.

"Have a seat, Goon," the superintendent said, taking the reports. "How about a nice cup of tea? Get yourself one, too. Now, let me read this quietly for a moment."

"Yes, sir," the nervous constable said, and shuffled away to the kitchen. He quietly ordered the housekeeper to put the kettle on and bring in a tray of tea and biscuits. Then he sidled back into the drawing room and eased himself into an armchair opposite the superintendent, who was reading the reports with a deep frown on his face.

Superintendent Jenks spent the next ten minutes very carefully going over Goon's reports. Mr Goon sat quiet as a mouse.

Finally Superintendent Jenks shook his head, looked up from the reports, and sighed. "Goon, you seem to have a handle on the library case, and some interesting clues. But the other report is all guesswork. You've basically made a very strong case against Mr Johnson based purely on guesswork. Where's the evidence? No matter how you word this report, there's nothing here that would make me think this Johnson fellow had anything to do with the break-in...and if there's no evidence of a staged crime, you can't make such accusations."

"No, sir," Goon said weakly, his heart sinking. "But if you were there, sir, you'd have seen—"

"Seen what, Goon?" The superintendent waved the papers about. "A man sweating profusely and looking nervous? Could that have been because he had just been _robbed_, perhaps?" Jenks sighed and thought for a moment. "You're on very thin ice here, Goon. I drove to Peterswood this afternoon seriously considering relieving you of your job and finding someone better qualified to take your place."

"Sir," Mr Goon moaned, sinking lower into his armchair.

"Fortunately for you," Jenks went on, "I don't have time right now to mess about finding a replacement. So as far as I'm concerned you've bought yourself a little time—but that's all."

Superintendent Jenks leaned forward and stared hard at Mr Goon, who felt like wilting like a flower in a burning hot sun. "This is your one and only chance to make things right, Goon. You will go back to see Johnson. You will apologise. And you will investigate this case _properly_, do you hear me? You will treat Johnson with the respect he deserves, and if it turns out later that you were right—that he did, in fact, stage his own break-in—well, then I'll eat my hat."

Mr Goon nodded, feeling a ray of hope. He wasn't losing his job, then? If he could just make amends with Mr Johnson and—

"Now, I wish to make a telephone call," the superintendent said, getting up. Mr Goon ushered him quickly to the telephone in the hall. Jenks picked up the receiver and looked squarely at him. "I suggest you get on over to see Johnson right away, before he clears away all the evidence."

Mr Goon nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir. I will, sir. Right away, sir." He stood and waited, expecting to see the superintendent out after he'd made his telephone call.

But Jenks merely stared at him. "Was there something else? If not, leave me alone to make this telephone call. I'll let myself out, if that's all right with you."

"Oh, certainly, sir, that's fine. I'll, er, be on my way then." Goon rushed to collect his helmet and bustled down the hallway to the front door. "Er, goodbye for now, sir. I'll sort everything out, you'll see."

The superintendent dialled a number and waited, and just as Mr Goon closed the door behind him he swore he heard the words, "Ah, Frederick, my boy." But then Mr Goon was standing on the doorstep, frowning deeply. Had he heard correctly? Surely the superintendent wouldn't be phoning those horrible pests for help on these cases!

Worried and angry, Mr Goon rode off to Green Meadows.


	10. A meeting in Fatty's shed

**10. A meeting in Fatty's shed**

Less than an hour earlier, straight after lunch, the Find-Outers gathered in Fatty's shed. Fatty could barely contain his excitement about his meeting with Peter Westlake.

Larry, Daisy, Pip and Bets seemed to sense immediately that something was up. "What is it?" asked Larry.

"Tell you in a moment," said Fatty, gesturing for them to make themselves comfortable.

It had been months since they had met in Fatty's shed, and dust had collected on the upturned wooden boxes they used as seats. Fatty provided Daisy and Bets with cushions so they wouldn't get their skirts dirty, while Larry and Pip just brushed the dust off with their hands.

"Right, you start, Larry and Daisy," Fatty ordered, reaching for a tin of biscuits he'd brought down to the shed after lunch. It was time he stocked up on snacks, and Cookie had provided him with a nice fresh-baked selection. He offered them around as Larry cleared his throat.

"There's not much to tell. We went to see Miriam Strider, and found her planting flowers in her garden. She's in her twenties, and a really nice person. She said she was sorry to hear about the break-in and went to fetch her library book."

Larry pulled out the book from under his coat. It was entitled _Criminal Minds_, and seemed brand new. Fatty took with interest. "I haven't read this one. I might have a look later."

"So, Fatty, what about you?" Pip demanded, looking impatient. "You have something on your mind, I can tell. You've gone all quiet and serious."

"You first, Pip and Bets," said Fatty, grinning suddenly.

Pip rolled his eyes, so Bets started into the short tale. "We flew over to Jack Crowder's house, but he wasn't in. His wife was there though, and she fished out the book and handed it over. Really nothing to report, I'm afraid."

Pip handed Fatty the book, entitled _Cracking Cases_. Again Fatty took it with interest, but he remembered straight away he'd read that one a long time ago. It wasn't particularly good.

"Now you," Pip demanded again. "Come on, Fatty, stop stalling. What's happened?"

Fatty stacked the two new books on top of the three he'd recovered from Peter Westlake, and then put the pile of five next to three more—the ones he already had. He opened his mouth to say something, but Daisy suddenly exclaimed and pointed at the books.

"Look! Fatty, one of those books has a blue cover!"

Startled, Fatty looked—and noticed a blue coloured spine. It was one of Peter Westlake's books. He'd been in such a daze earlier that he hadn't even noticed!

He held it up and grinned broadly. "Well, it's not exactly red lettering—but close enough." The words _Under Scrutiny_ were emblazoned across the cover in bright orange letters. "Mr Goon will have a field day when he sees this!"

Everyone roared with laughter. For several minutes they forgot the matter at hand and joked about how excited the bumbling policeman would be when he laid eyes on the book. Pip's impromptu false clue had turned out to be uncannily accurate—at least from Mr Goon's point of view.

Then Fatty cleared his throat. "Now, let's back down to business. I need to tell you about my visit to Peter Westlake. Are you ready?"

Everyone leaned forward, eyes shining, and Fatty began. He first told them about the bald man, and how he had seemed familiar for some reason. Then he related Peter's startling story about how his father—the bald man—had received a telephone call and defaced one of his library books by scribbling on the back of it.

"Unfortunately we don't know what he wrote," Fatty said, "but we can find out easily enough by visiting the library and finding that book. It's called _Confidence Tricksters_."

"But...doesn't all this mean that the burglar had his hands on the right book after all?" asked Bets, puzzled. "In which case, why didn't he take it away with him? Why did he leave it in the old school field with the rest?"

"Perhaps he just needed to _look_ at what he wrote on the back," Pip said thoughtfully. "Perhaps he copied it into a notebook or something. Then he wouldn't need to steal the book after all."

"That's what I thought," Fatty agreed. "Listen, and I'll tell you what I think happened yesterday. It all began when Peter Westlake was pottering about the house, getting ready to pop out to the library to return three books, which were due by the end of the day—that is, five o'clock. As he was getting ready, his father received a telephone call. Something was said on the phone that needed to be written down—but we don't know what."

"And Peter's books were sitting there by the telephone," said Daisy, nodding. "So he grabbed one, turned it over, and scribbled on the back."

"Why turn it over?" asked Larry.

Fatty shrugged. "Perhaps the cover was too dark to write on, but the back was white? Anyway, he turned it over and scribbled something—then put the phone down and turned to face Peter, who was standing there looking horrified."

Bets shuddered. "I could almost be there, the way you tell it, Fatty."

"Peter complains to his father about defacing books, but his father just sneers and walks away," Fatty continued. "He grabs his coat and goes out—possibly heading off somewhere that had something to do with that telephone call. Peter, meanwhile, is faced with a problem: one of his library books, _Confidence Tricksters_, is now messed up. But he simply must return those books that afternoon, before the library closes, so he tucks them into his coat and heads out into the rain."

"Yes—it _was_ raining yesterday," said Larry, remembering. "All right. So he goes to the library, manages to check the books in without Mrs Sharple noticing the writing, and sighs with relief. He chooses another three books and leaves for home."

"Meanwhile," Fatty said, taking up the story again, "his father, Mr Westlake, returns home later that afternoon. He searches for the book he wrote on, looking for that important bit of information...but is puzzled, because the book seems to have vanished into thin air. He starts to panic, hunting everywhere for it—and then Peter comes back home, maybe around four forty-five or so."

"How do you know that, exactly?" asked Pip. "Peter didn't tell you what time he returned from the library, did he?"

Fatty shook his head. "True, but I think his father must have headed straight out the door the moment he found out Peter had just returned the books to the library." He looked around the group and smiled. "There's something I haven't told you yet. I said I thought Mr Westlake looked familiar, and he was—because that very same man burst into the library a couple of minutes to five yesterday evening, just as I was on my way out. He nearly knocked me over, he was in such a hurry! I didn't think much of it at the time, only that he was rude—but now I'm certain he was there to find that book Peter had returned a little earlier."

"He must have been _furious_ when Peter told him he'd taken the book back to the library along with his precious scribbles!" said Daisy. "What else could Mr Westlake do, except go to the library straight away and try to find it?"

Fatty nodded again. "And even though he probably didn't know the title of the book, he _did_ know what kind of books his son read, so he just had to go to that section and sift through them. But Mrs Sharple was hovering about jangling keys, looking impatient, ready to lock the place up."

Pip suddenly slapped the table. "So Mr Westlake did the next best thing—he decided he'd have to break in later, so he went out the back door, checking to see if there were any deadbolts, which of course there were. That's why he decided to smash the big window and get in and out quickly."

Daisy's cheeks were flushed with excitement. "And he was so afraid of someone hearing the glass breaking and calling the police that he just stuffed all the books from the crime section into a bag and ran off."

"Then," Bets cried, "he hid in the old school field, went through the books until he found his little scribble on the back, copied whatever it was into a notebook, and took off." She clapped her hands with excitement. "That's it! We've solved the mystery!"

Fatty held up his hands and smiled ruefully. "No, Bets, we haven't. We don't yet know _why_ he wanted that book back so badly it was worth breaking in for that night. Why break in at all when he could simply return to the library the next day and have a quiet, sneaky peak through the crime section without breaking the law? No, whatever his reasons were, he needed that book badly—and urgently."

Fatty gazed around at his thoughtful Find-Outers. How wonderful it was to talk things through with them. He had most of the details straight in his mind already, but still it helped to bring it up for discussion, where everyone could chip in. Everything seemed to make sense now. Or most of it, anyway.

"All right," he said, "we need to do a couple of things. We need to somehow find out what was written on that book. We can head straight back to the library now and—wait, even better would be to phone Mrs Sharple quickly. I'll do that in a second. Once we know what was written, it might give us some clue as to why it was so important—and why he needed it so urgently it couldn't possibly wait until the next morning."

"Should we report this to the police?" said Larry. "I mean, not Old Clear-Orf, but perhaps Superintendent Jenks?"

"We don't have any proof," said Fatty. "Everything we have is theory, an educated guess. The last thing we want is to alert Mr Westlake that we know about him—otherwise he might be careful to cover his tracks. We need to catch him out quietly, before he knows we're on to him."

An ominous silence fell across the shed. Even Buster whined briefly, as if he knew that such detective work involved danger. Snooping around after someone like Mr Westlake was not going to be a pleasant job at all.

"I'm going to telephone Mrs Sharple," said Fatty, getting up. "Let's find out what was written on that book. We can go and pick it up later, but I feel I'm going to burst if I don't find out _now_ what was so important!"

Fatty told the others to wait patiently while he hurried up to the house. He dialled the number for the library and was relieved when Mrs Sharple answered crisply.

"Mrs Sharple, it's Fatty—er, Frederick Trotteville. I have all your books here, safe and sound."

"Well, that's wonderful," said Mrs Sharple, sounding pleased. "And did you find out anything of use?"

"Maybe. But I need you to check something for me, if you will. Would you go over to the crime section and collect a book entitled _Confidence Tricksters_? Bring it back to the phone. I'll wait here."

Puzzled, Mrs Sharple went off. The line was silent for several minutes, and then Fatty heard a small clattering sound as she returned. "All right, I have the book here. Now what?"

Almost breathless with excitement, Fatty said, "Turn it over. Tell me what's scribbled on the back."

There was another silence. "I don't understand," Mrs Sharple said. "There's _nothing_ written on the back. And I should hope not, too."

Taken aback, Fatty almost felt like telling Mrs Sharple to look again—but he realised she might get annoyed at him if he suggested that. Instead he said, "Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Well, unless it was written on the dust jacket," the elderly librarian said. "It's missing, as I mentioned earlier. All the books are in rather bad shape now, unfortunately. Some are torn, others are dirty and bent, and this one has its dust jacket missing."

Fatty's shoulders sagged in disappointment. He murmured something and hung up, all the excitement draining from him in a rush. What a blow! But of course it made perfect sense. The burglar had found exactly what he was after—his scribbled notes on the dust jacket of that book. And instead of copying the information into a notebook, or stealing the book, he'd simply removed the dust jacket, stuffed it in his pocket, and taken off into the night.

Turning to head back to the shed, Fatty almost jumped out of his skin when the telephone rang loudly right behind him. Startled, he snatched it up. "Hello? Frederick Trotteville here."

"Ah, Frederick, my boy," said a crisp, clear, and very familiar voice. "And how's my right-hand man coming along? Still solving mysteries, I hope?"

"Superintendent Jenks!" exclaimed Fatty, amazed and delighted. "It's great to hear from you! And yes, we're still solving mysteries—or trying to. We're in the middle of the library robbery case, sir, and getting on fairly well."

There was a tiny pause. "Well, I suppose that shouldn't surprise me," said Superintendent Jenks with a chuckle. "But hang on to your hat, Frederick, because I have something a little more—what would little Bets call it?—a little more _juicy_ to get stuck into. Stolen books are no laughing matter, by any means, but there's something else concerning me at the moment, and I'd like you to get involved—if you're up for it?"

Fatty was astonished. _Two_ mysteries to solve?


	11. Superintendent Jenks pays a visit

**11. Superintendent Jenks pays a visit**

Standing in Mr Goon's hall with the telephone in his hand, Jenks got right down to business. He'd decided to let Frederick in on Mr Johnson's case because this was one time he couldn't afford to rely on Mr Goon to plod his way through on his own.

He ran through the details of the case, and told the boy about his meeting with Goon. "I'm at Goon's now," he said, "standing in his hallway. I sent Goon off to apologise to Mr Johnson, and to investigate the crime scene a little more thoroughly. He may find something useful, but frankly I doubt it. So, Frederick, would you be interested in taking a hand in this little matter?"

"Of course!" came the enthusiastic reply. "You leave it to us, sir."

"But be careful," Jenks warned. "I assured this Johnson fellow I would be taking a personal interest in this case, so it wouldn't look good for me to send a bunch of children along to his office—if you see what I mean. He doesn't know you like I do. He'll wonder what on earth we're playing at! No, I need you to act entirely independently, as you normally do."

"I understand, sir," Frederick said. "We'll think of some innocent reason to go and talk to Mr Johnson. He evaluates coins, you say?"

Jenks smiled, immediately guessing Frederick's plan. "I assume you can dig up a few strange-looking coins from somewhere, perhaps from holidays abroad...and go along to have them evaluated? That would be a first-class reason to visit, Frederick, and would indeed seem perfectly innocent. Now, tell me about this library case you're working on."

"Well, sir," said Frederick, "it was broken into last night, just as Mr Johnson's office was. Two in one night! Anyway, we have an interesting lead. It seems one of the library members, a Peter Westlake, returned some books yesterday—but his father had written something on one of them, something we feel was important enough to break in last night to reclaim. We—"

"Wait." Superintendent Jenks frowned. "Did you say Westlake? Are you sure? Look, perhaps I should come and see you. Are you at home? I'm in Peterswood already, so I'll be there in five minutes. I suddenly feel there's a connection between these two burglaries, and I want to get everything straight. I'll see you soon."

Jenks put the phone down and hurried out to the car. So Carl Westlake was somehow involved in the library break-in. Well, stealing books from a library was hardly his scene, but stealing coins most certainly was. If Frederick—or Goon, for that matter—could puzzle out these two cases and come up with the goods, then Carl Westlake could end up locked behind bars and the little village of Peterswood would be a much safer place.

In moments the driver pulled up outside the Trottevilles' house, and Jenks climbed out. He walked through the gate towards the house, but suddenly heard a small dog barking and glanced towards the shed that stood in the garden near some shrubs. Ah, Frederick's workroom! It looked innocent enough, but the superintendent knew it was filled with interesting articles, including disguises and books.

He smiled and headed towards it as the little door opened and a black Scottish Terrier tore out and hurtled towards him. Immediately after the small dog came little Bets, squealing in delight, and Jenks' day suddenly grew brighter. She rushed up and Jenks swung her up in the air and around. "Goodness, you're getting far too big for me to keep doing that," he groaned. "How are you, young Bets? And hello, Buster—what a round tummy you have these days! Is Frederick not walking you enough?"

"It's SO good to see you again, Superintendent!" said Bets, beaming all over her face.

The others were hurrying across the lawn now, Daisy first, then Larry, Pip, and finally Frederick. He greeted them all happily, and allowed them to lead him back to the shed where they plastered him with biscuits and lemonade.

After a few minutes of joyful banter, Jenks got down to business. "Now, Frederick—tell me all about this library mystery you've got going on. Don't leave anything out."

Bets giggled. "It's funny hearing you call him Frederick. We all call him Fatty. It suits him better."

The Superintendent smiled. "Well, Fatty it is then. Now, please—start talking."

Fatty cleared his throat and solemnly told him everything that had happened that morning, from the moment Mrs Hilton had asked them to help Mrs Sharple with her inventory, all the way up to the part where they had all collected the remaining crime books from other library members. He seemed to skim over some of the detail when he got to the part about finding the pile of discarded books in the old school field, and Jenks couldn't help noticing the way the others simultaneously cast their eyes downwards.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked with narrowed eyes. "You said you went out the back of the library and up the alley, and then crawled through the fence into the old school field, where you found the books lying in a pile. But you told Goon you'd spotted them while you walking along the pavement at the _front_ of the school? Why?"

Fatty sighed. "You're far too sharp for us, sir. I confess we might have, er, misled Mr Goon a little. We told him we spotted the books from the street, otherwise we might have got into trouble for trespassing. You know how he is, sir. Any excuse he can find to complain about us."

Jenks nodded. "Yes. All right. Anything else you're not telling me?"

There was a silence, and everyone looked very uncomfortable.

Jenks sighed. "Out with it."

Fatty licked his lips. "Er, well, we might have accidentally left a couple of clues that had nothing to do with the case, sir. Mr Goon was so rude to us that we felt he deserved it. I'm sorry, sir."

Jenks groaned and closed his eyes. "Look, all of you. Goon is in serious trouble at the moment. His temper has once again flawed his judgement and he's gone and blamed Mr Johnson for staging the break-in. I've told him he'd better do well in this case, or else. I thought he was doing reasonably well with this library case, but now you're telling me all the clues he had were your doing?"

"Not all of them, sir—just a couple," said Larry.

"Well, you'd better speak to him and sort this out," Jenks said. "To tell you the truth, I'm getting a little tired of this animosity between you and Goon, and while he may not be the most level-headed fellow in the world, he is after all trying his best—and it doesn't help when you play tricks on him like this." He looked around at the crestfallen faces. "This is very serious, you know, this habit of leaving false clues. It may seem funny, but it really isn't. It ends here, all right?"

"Right, sir," said Fatty miserably. "I'll speak to him myself. It's my fault. I'll straighten things out."

"Good. See that you do, Frederick."

Fatty cleared his throat. "Er, is there anything else you can tell us about the library case, sir? For instance, do we know what time the library was broken into? And what was that other clue Mr Goon found that we don't know about?"

Jenks pulled out a sheaf of papers and rifled through with a frown. "Let me see. Yes, according to Goon's report, the neighbours say they heard glass breaking around one in the morning. And here's Goon's list of clues. You can see for yourself. Any look familiar to you?"

"Yes, sir," Fatty mumbled. "All of them except for the strand of black wool. I don't know how we missed that."

Jenks folded the papers and put them carefully back in his pocket. "All right, now, let's talk about Carl Westlake, Peter's father." He collected his thoughts and laced his fingers together. "He's a dangerous fellow. You're not to go near him, do you understand? Feel free to pop down to Johnson's office and do a bit of harmless investigating; your eyes are sharp and you're very good at putting two and two together and coming up with five. But stay away from danger, please. Carl Westlake has been in prison a number of times, and he was released a year ago and is supposedly going straight. But I don't believe a word of it. He's making good money somehow, and that evening shift security job at the transport company along North Lane doesn't pay much."

Fatty looked surprised. "He has an evening shift? That would explain why he was at home this morning, cleaning his motor bike."

"Yes," Jenks said, "we know he works from six in the evening until around half past midnight, so he might have gone from work straight to the library to break in. I once had men watching him day after day, but there's only so much time we can spend keeping tabs on a man in the hope that we'll catch him in the act of something."

Pip whistled. "So he's really in your bad books, then."

"Yes," said Superintendent Jenks, nodding. "He's a bad sort, all right. And we're pretty sure he's just a hired hand; he doesn't plan the jobs, just carries them out. He's not the brains behind the operation, just the monkey they send in to do the dirty work."

Jenks looked at his watch. "Goodness me, it's nearly four o'clock. I really am going to have to get going. Well, Find-Outers—I trust you will keep out of harm's way and snoop only where it is safe to do so?"

"Ooh, we'll be careful," said Bets with a shiver. "Fatty, please stay away from Mr Westlake."

Fatty laughed and squeezed Bets' shoulder. "I'll try. Well, it's been good to see you again, sir. Do you really have to go? I could show you the disguise I'm going to wear when I go and see Mr Johnson in the morning." He hunched over and screwed up his face, and when he spoke his voice was quavering and weak, like an old man's. "'Ere you go, young man—found these 'ere coins in an old sock stuffed down the back of a drawer. Reckon they're werf summat, do yer?"

Everyone roared with laughter, and Jenks shook his head in admiration. "I'd give anything to see you in disguise, Frederick—but alas, I must go. Take care, Find-Outers, and make sure you straighten things out properly with Goon."


	12. Fatty in disguise

**12. Fatty in disguise**

At nine o'clock the next morning, all the Find-Outers met once more in Fatty's shed, eager to get stuck into the mystery of the stolen coins. Bets watched Fatty with awe as he set about disguising himself.

He was already dressed in an aged yellow shirt that smelled of cigarette smoke, and black trousers that were a little short for him. He found a moth-eaten tweed jacket in his collection of old clothes, and a matching hat that seemed to fit the image he was trying to create.

"I want to be an old man who's been putting things in order, selling old junk around the house," said Fatty, gazing into the mirror as he painted wrinkles on his face. Everyone crowded around with interest, and Fatty frowned. "You're blocking my light. Back off a little, would you?"

Pip was studying the coins they had all collected together. It was amazing what you could find lying about in drawers. "You know, _none_ of these look valuable," he said. "Some are foreign, and others are just, well, a little old—but not _really_ old."

"That's why I think an old man disguise will work better than just turning up as myself," said Fatty, rummaging around in a cupboard. "Mr Johnson will probably try to humour an old person instead of just shoving the coins back and saying they're worthless. Now _where_ did I put my yellowed teeth—ah, here they are!"

He inserted them into his mouth and turned to grin at the others. Everyone grimaced. "Ugh, Fatty—that's revolting!" said Daisy. "You look like you've been smoking all your life."

"'Ere, got a ciggie?" said Fatty in a gravelly voice.

Bets suddenly had an idea. "Can I come?" she asked. "We don't often get the chance to come with you when you're in disguise, but...but I could be your granddaughter, couldn't I?"

Fatty stared at her, and then a smile spread across his face. "Bets, that's a fine idea. Yes, come along with me. You can roll your eyes and tut-tut a lot, and apologise for my poor memory, terrible hearing, and failing eye-sight."

Everyone laughed, and Bets slipped a hand into Fatty's. "It's all right, Grandpa—I'll look after you, don't you worry."

Fatty donned a wig that had a latex section of bald head. The hair was scraggly and grey, and the moment he put it on and screwed up his face, he became someone else. But the colour of the latex skin didn't quite match that on Fatty's forehead, so he dabbed some colouring across the join to mask it—then donned the hat, which came down to his eyebrows anyway. Finally he found some thick-rimmed glasses and put them on the end of his nose, then screwed up his eyes into a squint.

The effect was stunning, but when Fatty grabbed a walking stick and hobbled slowly into the garden, Larry had a sudden idea and hurried after Fatty with a slim cushion. "Stick this up the back of your jacket, right up past the shoulder-blades," he said. "Old people often have hunches, and this will work nicely."

He was right—but the cushion needed to be pinned in place to stop it sliding back down. It was worth it, though. Now, when Fatty hunched forwards over his walking stick, he truly looked like a wizened old man hobbling along.

They all walked along the street together, with Buster on a leash, sniffing at his master's ankles suspiciously. Those weren't his usual boots! They were old and smelly, and not at all like his master's normal scent. Bets happily held onto the leash so that Fatty could concentrate on his slow-moving hobble.

As they walked, Fatty mumbled in a low voice to the others. "Now, only Bets and I will go in to see Mr Johnson, but the rest of you can make yourselves useful by scouting around underneath the window outside, where the burglar got in. Superintendent Jenks mentioned something in Old Clear-Orf's report about a drainpipe."

"Yes," Larry said, "Mr Johnson thought the burglar must have climbed the drainpipe, but Mr Goon scoffed at the idea."

"Right," Pip agreed, "which means we just need to look for a window on the second floor next to a drainpipe. There can't be many drainpipes around the building."

"Plus, the window might still be smashed," Fatty said quietly. "And even if it's been fixed by now, the glass may not have been cleared up off the pavement below. You shouldn't have any trouble finding the right window—and when you do, search very carefully around the area and see if you can find any clues dropped on the ground."

"Right, chief!" said Larry.

It was a long, slow walk to Green Meadows, an an oddly-named office block considering there were no meadows in sight, green or otherwise. They were right in the middle of the village by now, and cars roared by noisily as they gathered around the front door.

Fatty looked about. "We're in full view of everything here. See those houses across the road? Anyone looking out their bedroom windows would clearly see a man climbing a drainpipe—and they certainly _would_ look out if they heard glass smashing. I would think Mr Johnson's office is round the back, otherwise the burglar might not have had the nerve to go through with such a bold break-in."

Larry nodded and set off with the others, giving Fatty and Bets a wave. "See you soon, Gramps!"

Fatty took Bets' hand and, together, they walked into the lobby. Bets was startled when a strange voice spoke to her—and then realised in a flash it was just Fatty, putting on his old man act. "Can you see the board, my dear? I can't read a blessed thing. Me eyes aren't what they used to be."

Bets stifled a giggle as a man in overalls looked up from sweeping the floor. She stared at the board on the wall and found Mr Johnson's name. "Clive Johnson, pro...pro..."

"Proprietor," Fatty mumbled.

"Proprietor of CJ Coins & Collectibles, Room 22 on the second floor," Bets finished. "This way, Grandpa. Careful now. We'll take the lift."

They rode up in the lift to the second floor, and stepped out into a hall. Bets followed the signs and led Fatty slowly along to Room 22. She knocked timidly.

A thin man opened the door. He had round glasses and a kindly face. "Yes?"

"Are you the chap what evaluates old coins?" croaked Fatty, leaning close and peering at Mr Johnson as if inspecting a tear in the wallpaper. "I got some good 'uns, might be werf summat."

"Ah," said Mr Johnson, sounding uncertain. "I normally prefer my customers to make an appointment. It takes time to inspect old coins, you know. I have to find the right books, study them carefully, make enquiries..."

"Wassat?" said Fatty loudly, cupping a hand around his ear.

"I said you need to make an appointment," repeated Mr Johnson, raising his voice and glancing up and down the hall.

Fatty lowered his head and made a grumbling sound, then turned away—but he gave Bets a wink as he started off down the hall at a snail's pace. "Well, I'm sorry to 'ave bovvered yer, Mister. I'll just walk all the way home, then make an appointment, and come back another day." He stopped to cough—a horrible, dry cough that made his whole body shudder. "That's if me lungs don't clog up again, what wiv the fumes from the traffic an' all."

Bets watched closely as an uncomfortable look come over Mr Johnson's face. "It's all right, Mr Johnson," she said, "it only takes about an hour for Grandpa to walk home. Well, perhaps two hours, because he needs to rest along the way—that is, if we can find some nice benches to sit on. But we'll be happy to make an appointment. May we come and see you sometime in the week, when it's more convenient?"

Mr Johnson wrung his hands. "Ah, well, I don't mean to—Look, why don't you just pop into my office now, and we'll take a quick look at those coins. Come on in."

Fatty immediately turned and shuffled into the office, collapsing into a visitor's chair with a groan. "Ooh, me back. It'll be the death of me. That's if me coughing don't get me first." And with that he burst into a fit of hacking and spluttering.

Bets turned away to contain her giggles, and ran her eyes over the office. It was very tidy, and she noticed the window had been replaced; the pane still had a large sticker on it, with the name Tippington's Glazing. The polished wood floor was clear of any glass, so it looked like Mr Johnson had been busy.

On the wall were several picture frames, and Bets knew that one of them had a safe hidden behind it. But which one? After a careful scrutiny she thought she knew; most pictures were hung with wire and hooks, so the top fell away from the wall perhaps half an inch. But one picture hung differently to the others, perfectly flush with the wall—because it used hinges like a cupboard door.

Bets patted herself on the back for her detective work and wandered over to the window as Fatty dug in his pocket and deposited a collection of coins on Mr Johnson's desk. "Don't know if they're werf anyfing," he grumbled, "but it's werf checking, innit?"

"Yes, yes," Mr Johnson said, picking up a coin and squinting at it. He put it down and picked up another, then another. A frown spread across his face. "Hmm, well, unfortunately these are, er, completely worthless. Do you have anything else?"

"Wassat?" said Fatty loudly.

"I said these coins are worthless, Mr...er, what did you say your name was?"

Fatty slapped the table with the palm of his hand. "I thought you were s'posed to be able to tell if coins are werf anyfing. I thought you were an expert or summat."

Mr Johnson nodded rapidly. "Oh yes, I'm very experienced. I can certainly tell the difference between coins that are valuable, and coins that were just...well, found at the back of an old drawer, as these appear to be."

Bets suddenly saw Larry, Pip, Daisy, and Buster appear around the corner in the car park below. They'd found the right window! She watched them for a moment as they spread out to look for clues.

"Did you have this window replaced?" she asked, suddenly thinking it might be a good way to turn the conversation towards the burglary. "I notice you have a sticker on the glass."

Mr Johnson sighed. "Yes, I can't get the thing off. Why these companies have to advertise themselves in such an annoying, blatant way is beyond me. They think I _want_ to spend time scraping stickers off the glass!"

Fatty nodded as if he understood. "Accident, was it? Tripped and fell against the window, did yer?" He turned to Bets. "Remember when I did that, my dear? Ooh, it made a right old mess, that did—and I near killed meself." He cackled, and then broke into another coughing fit.

Mr Johnson looked alarmed and handed Fatty a tissue. "Er, this was no accident," he said. He got up and started to pace the room, his face reddening. "I was robbed last night. Oh yes. Someone climbed that drainpipe out there and smashed my window to get in. Stole coins right out of my safe."

"Oh, that's terrible!" exclaimed Bets.

"Yes, yes," said Mr Johnson, sounding agitated now. "And to think that horrible policeman came here and accused me of breaking my own window!—and stealing a set of valuable coins that had been left in my care! Of all the nerve! I complained to the police headquarters about him, so I did, and that pompous bobby came scuttling back here to apologise late yesterday afternoon."

"Did you have an alibi?" asked Bets. Fatty glanced at her and frowned, and Bets realised the question might have sounded a little odd for a young girl.

Indeed, Mr Johnson looked surprised. "Er, well, not really. Apparently the burglary was around two o'clock in the morning, so that policeman says, and I was sound asleep in bed at the time. Of course my wife will vouch for me, but I don't think she counts as an alibi as far as the police are concerned."

He nodded his head to the wall, and after a moment Bets realised he was gesturing to the neighbouring office. "My colleague, Ted, used to stay late, sometimes till after midnight. Shame he's been going early for the last couple of weeks, otherwise he might have seen something, or warned the burglar off. But Ted goes off around half past four these days, and I leave at five on the dot."

Mr Johnson shook his head and sighed. "That policeman. Confounded idiot of a man."

"That wouldn't be Mr Goon, would it?" said Bets, suppressing a grin.

"Yes, that's the fellow!" said Mr Johnson, nodding rapidly. "Quite ghastly, he is. But that nice superintendent at the police headquarters soon put him right—sent Goon back here to start again. The idiot apologised until he was blue in the face, and then sniffed around for ages, searching for clues. I'd already started cleaning up by then."

"Well," said Fatty, clearing his throat noisily, "burglars are far too clever to leave clues lying about anyway. Bet that bobby didn't find nuffin."

"No, he didn't," said Mr Johnson, frowning, "but I did find some grey powder on the floor while I was sweeping up the glass. I told that constable about it, and he just shrugged and said it was probably nothing. Strange, though. It was on my rug, just a small scattering of powder or dust."

Bets listened, rapt. A clue! But a strange one. "Could it have been from when the burglar broke the glass?" she asked, gesturing towards the window.

Mr Johnson shrugged. "Well, I did think it was dust or dirt flying off the window, or perhaps off the window frame—but it's the wrong colour for dust _or_ dirt, a sort of pale grey or dirty white. Very peculiar." Mr Johnson scratched his head and perched on the edge of his desk. "Besides, it was only in one small area on the rug, well away from the window. What do you make of _that?_"

"It's a mystery!" said Bets, unable to help herself. "Was that it? Just dust? No fingerprints, footprints, scraps of clothing caught on a nail...?"

Mr Johnson laughed. "I'm afraid not." Then he shook his head and looked glum. "I don't know why I'm laughing. The owner of the coins came to see me yesterday afternoon, to collect them—and he found Mr Goon poking about and the safe standing wide open. That did _not_ go down well, I can tell you. I'm afraid word will get out that I'm sloppy with my security..."

"Wassat?" said Fatty loudly, cupping his ear behind his ear again. "Soppy with mice something-or-other? You're not making sense, man!"

Mr Johnson smiled suddenly, and gave Bets a wink. "Never mind, sir. Look, I really must get on. I'm sorry I couldn't help you with—"

"Know any good accountant types?" asked Fatty suddenly. "These coins may not be werf nuffin, but I still got a load of cash sittin' about the place. Be nice to put it somewhere safe, maybe invest it."

Mr Johnson thought for a moment. "Er, well, I think you really need a financial advisor rather than an accountant, but perhaps my colleague next door can help you out, perhaps suggest someone. I'll introduce you to him, if you like."

"That'll be very kind, fanks very much," said Fatty, climbing to his feet with a terrible groan. "Ooh, me back. Ooh, me arthritis. Ooh, me everything."

Bets giggled, and clamped a hand over her mouth as Mr Johnson glanced at her. Fatty hobbled from the office and the coin appraiser whispered to her, "You shouldn't laugh at your grandfather, you know. One day you'll be old too."


	13. Clues and suspects!

**13. Clues and suspects!**

Fatty and Bets waited patiently in the hallway while Mr Johnson knocked on the neighbouring office door, upon which a sign read TED MASTERS, ACCOUNTANT.

"Ah, Clive," said the young man who opened the door. He was dressed smartly in a crisp pin-striped shirt, a light grey waist jacket with sharply-pressed matching grey trousers held up with braces, and shiny shoes. His suit jacket hung on a coat stand just inside the door. He smiled at the group standing in the hall. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Mr Johnson waved towards Fatty. "Ted, this kindly old gentleman is seeking advice about finances, and perhaps you'd be able to help him, or suggest a good financial advisor. Er, I didn't catch the gentleman's name..."

"Wassat?" said Fatty loudly. He was enjoying himself immensely, especially as Bets seemed to be asking a lot of good questions. What a good little Find-Outer she was! He shook his head. "Don't know why you all mumble so much. Can't hear a blessed thing!"

"He has an awful lot of cash hidden around the house," Bets said helpfully, deftly changing the subject. "It needs to be put in a bank or something."

"Quite," said Mr Masters, looking amused. He had twinkling eyes, a deep tanned complexion, and bright white teeth. Fatty guessed he was a real charmer with the ladies. "Unfortunately I don't have time right now. Besides, I don't think I can help you. You really need a good financial advisor. Wait, let me fetch you a card..."

He disappeared into his office, and through the open door Fatty glimpsed what looked like plush, expensive furniture and a number of shiny ornaments lined up along a credenza unit on the opposite wall. A crystal globe on a brass stand, an ornate vase, a couple of ebony figurines, a shiny brass miniature telescope, a pair of enormous bookends that looked to have been carved from a dark-coloured wood...

And on the floor was a tiger rug. Its eyes were glassy and staring, and Fatty could see from the look on Bets' face that she found it most unpleasant.

Mr Masters returned with a couple of business cards in his hand.

"These fellows will see you all right," he said. "You get in touch with one of them, and make an appointment. They'll probably come out to visit you at your home, you know—save you the walk, which I know must be taxing for an elderly gentleman such as yourself."

"Wassat?" Fatty said. "A taxi? For me? That's very kind of yer, sir, but I don't need one yet." He took the business cards and peered at them closely. "Why, this writing's all fuzzy. I'd sue the printer if I were you, me old fella."

Fatty broke into a cackling laughter, which once more turned into a coughing fit.

Mr Masters' smile faded and he looked at Mr Johnson, who stood behind Fatty looking apologetic.

"Well, I have work to do," Mr Masters said quietly. "If you'll excuse me..." He nodded, smiled politely, and gently closed the door.

Mr Johnson nodded and smiled politely too. "He's a nice chap, but very busy—as indeed am I. I really must get on. Good day, sir. Good day, miss."

As soon as Mr Johnson's door closed, Fatty straightened up and patted Bets on the shoulder. "Good job, Bets. We didn't find out much, but it was fun anyway. Let's go."

Downstairs in the lobby they passed the caretaker, who had finished sweeping the floor and was slowly wiping the windows to either side of the entrance doors. Everything he did seemed slow, thought Fatty—he was like a tortoise, moving in slow motion.

The caretaker glanced at them as they headed out the door. "You don't want to believe everything you hear about that coin fella," he said in a low voice. "Nice chap, he is, but there are rumours going about that he stages break-ins and sells the coins down the black market."

Bets whispered to Fatty, "What's a black market? Does that mean it's really grimy?"

But before Fatty could answer, the caretaker threw down his cloth and stepped closer. He was an old but spry man with flowing white hair and a sharp hooked nose. He stood right next to Fatty as if he were his best friend, and looked out on the street through the windows. "Funny goings on, I reckon. Been here ever since they opened this building three years ago, and I know all the tenants. That Johnson fella—nice chap, but the police are saying the burglary the other night was staged."

"It _wasn't_ staged!" said Bets unexpectedly. Fatty glanced at her in surprise. She looked annoyed. "It was that awful policeman, Mr Goon, who said the burglary was staged—but it wasn't, was it, Fatty?"

Too late she clamped a hand to her mouth. "Er...I mean, _Grandpa._"

The caretaker seemed taken aback. He looked from Bets to Fatty and back again. Fatty thought quickly, then broke into a cackle and slapped his knee. "That young granddaughter of mine," he croaked. "She's a one. Always letting slip what's on her mind. Called me 'hunchback' last week, and 'baldy' the other day...and today it's 'fatty'."

"What a rude little girl," the caretaker said, shaking his head. "Anyway, like I said, you don't want to believe everything you hear. I reckon that police chap has a screw loose, saying stuff like that."

"I'm surprised no one heard the glass breaking the other night," said Fatty.

"Well, the building's empty," said the caretaker with a shrug. "But the neighbours heard it all right. From across the road, I mean, in those houses there. Heard the glass smashing as clear as anything, so Mr Goon said when he came back the second time. He'd changed his tune a bit, you see—told me he'd decided to give Johnson the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, he says he spoke to all the people living opposite and found out the window was smashed around two in the morning. Bold as brass, that burglar. Bold as brass."

Fatty listened carefully. For a moment he forgot he was in disguise and he let his voice revert back to normal. "And what time did Mr Johnson leave his office?"

Bets nudged him, and he frowned at her—then realised what she trying to tell him and quickly stooped again, clearing his throat.

But the caretaker was staring out the window and didn't seem to notice anything odd about Fatty. "Usual time, five on the dot. He's predictable, that one. Unlike that accountant fella next door. He used to stay late, sometimes till midnight. Hard worker, he is. But he leaves early these days."

"Could he have left late two nights ago, when Mr Johnson's office was robbed?" Bets asked. "Maybe that night he stayed until everyone had gone home, and then decided to stay even later just in case people were wandering by outside. And then, at two in the morning, when everything was quiet, he broke into Mr Johnson's office and...and then broke the window to make it look like—"

The caretaker laughed. "Naw, miss. That doesn't make much sense. Johnson's office door was locked when he arrived the next morning—so the burglar had to have got in from the _outside_, see, not through the office door."

Unless the burglar had a spare set of keys, Fatty thought suddenly. Then he could sneak into Mr Johnson's office, steal the coins, smash the window to make it look like someone broke in from outside, and lock the door again. But that assumed the burglar had a set of keys to get into Mr Johnson's office...

And who would have a spare set of keys? The caretaker, that's who!

"Besides," the caretaker said, "as I said, that Masters fella's been leaving early these days, just after five every night for the last couple of weeks now."

Fatty thought that a little odd, since Mr Johnson had said his neighbour left at around four thirty. But something else was on his mind. "So, er, do you stay late yourself, to lock up after everyone's gone home?

The caretaker frowned. "Until six, but everyone has a front door key so they can lock up as they leave, and come in as early as they like." Suddenly the old man turned and looked suspiciously at Fatty. "Why? What's it to you, anyway?"

Fatty chose that moment to break into a coughing fit, and he staggered, reaching for Bets' shoulder. "Sorry, better go," he sputtered. "Need fresh air..."

They waved goodbye to the white-haired caretaker and stepped outside. Fatty gripped Bets' shoulder tightly and walked her away from the door and around the corner, out of sight. Then he swung her round and stared at her, his mind working fast.

"I wonder if the caretaker had anything to do with the theft. If anyone can gain access to an office without breaking a door down, it's him. He probably has a spare key for every office in the building! He could have snuck in when everyone had gone home, spent as long as he wanted cracking the safe, and then—when he was ready to go—smashed the window and let himself quietly out of the building."

Excited by the possibility, Fatty led Bets around to the back of the building, deep in thought. Bets reminded him that he was supposed to be old man, and Fatty immediately stooped and started hobbling, moaning under his breath about his back.

A small car park lay at the rear of the building, surrounded by the backs of shops and high walls. Around twenty cars were crammed into the tight space, and below the window of Mr Johnson's office stood the other Find-Outers, waiting patiently. Buster barked sharply and trotted over with his tongue lolling.

"Hello, Buster old thing," said Fatty, bending to pet him. "Have you been sniffing out clues?"

Larry waved them over, his eyes shining. "Fatty, look—a footprint!"

Against the wall of the building stood a tiny brick structure with a sloping roof and a locked wooden door. Probably a supplies hut, Fatty thought, or perhaps where the electricity meters are. In any case, next to it a sturdy drainpipe ran up the wall to the roof.

Larry delved in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, on which he had sketched a familiar pattern. "I climbed up on the roof of this small shed," he said breathlessly. "You can see it's a corrugated tin roof, but I found parts of footprints there—and I sketched one of them."

Fatty stared at the drawing, his mouth dropping open. "Well, look at that! I don't have my own sketch with me, but I'm pretty sure that's the same sole pattern we found at the library, on the window sill. That means Superintendent Jenks was right—these burglaries _are_ connected. It looks like Carl Westlake robbed both places."

"But why?" asked Daisy, looking puzzled. "It seems odd to break into a library, steal books, then dump them, and then break into this place."

"How do we know he broke into the library first?" asked Pip. "It might have been the other way around."

"Don't be silly," Larry said, giving Pip a punch on the arm. "Don't you remember what Superintendent Jenks said? The neighbours heard the glass breaking around one in the morning. _This_ window was broken around two."

"That's right," said Fatty. "So the burglar broke into the library, stole the books, took them to the old school and rifled through them, then headed over here—possibly on foot, as it's not far. I suppose there's a risk of being heard if you drive about on a motor bike in the early hours of the morning."

Pip nodded. "You're right—it's not far between the library and here."

Fatty stared up at the drainpipe. It was fixed to the wall alongside the window to Mr Johnson's office. On the concrete directly below were several large splinters of glass and a scattering of smaller pieces, but nowhere near enough to form an entire window. Fatty pointed at the fragments and nodded thoughtfully. "I think this proves the window was broken inwards, or else there'd be a lot more glass on the ground. And if the caretaker has been out here clearing up...well, he would have cleared _all_ of it up, not just some of it. So I think it's pretty clear that our man, Carl Westlake, robbed both places."

"And the caretaker had nothing to do with it?" said Bets, sounding disappointed. "I didn't like him much."

Pip laughed. "You can't pin a burglary on someone just because you don't like them, silly. Otherwise Mr Goon would be guilty of all sorts of crimes!"

Fatty groaned. "I just remembered we've got to go and see him. Well, I have, anyway. I'll head over there on the way back home."

"What, in disguise?" asked Daisy with a giggle.

Fatty stared at her, and then grinned broadly. "Yes, why not? If I'm going to confess to leaving false clues, then I might as well get _some_ enjoyment out of it. On the way home I'd like to stop at the bakery—and Bets, do you have any of those sweets left?"


	14. Mr Goon gets a shock

**14. Mr Goon gets a shock**

The first thing Mr Goon did that morning was to go straight round to see that toad of a boy, Frederick Trotteville. He'd spent the previous afternoon eating humble pie at Mr Johnson's office, and searching for clues that weren't there, and he felt the whole business was a waste of valuable time.

Except for the footprint.

As Mr Goon rode slowly along the street towards the Trottevilles', he thought about the print he'd found on top of the little brick hut that was stuck on the backside of the office building. It stood right under Mr Johnson's window, and a sturdy drainpipe ran up the wall just inches away. Mr Goon was forced to admit that it _might_ be possible for someone to climb on top of that hut and shinny the rest of the way up the wall using the drainpipe...but it would take a very fit and strong man to cling to that drainpipe three floors up while smashing the window of the office!

Still, Mr Goon had to concede that Mr Johnson may not have staged the break-in after all. Besides, there was only a small amount of glass scattered on the concrete, which must mean the window was broken inwards, not out.

When he fetched a stepladder from the building caretaker and climbed unsteadily on top of the hut, he stood upon the corrugated tin roof and noticed dirty footprints everywhere. The pattern of the print matched that found at the library, on the window sill, and Mr Goon suddenly wondered if the same burglar had broken into two places in one night—first the library at one o'clock, and then Mr Johnson's office at two.

Deep in thought, Mr Goon had spent the evening mulling things over. He slept restlessly, worrying about losing his job, and awoke the next morning determined to crack both cases as soon as possible.

And the first thing he needed to do was fetch those library books from Frederick. One of them was most likely the one he wanted—the one with the blue cover and red lettering—and it irked him that those annoying kids had already got their grubby little hands on it.

He pounded on the Trottevilles' door and waited grimly. He was going to take no more nonsense from that horrible boy. This was a matter for the police, and—

Mrs Trotteville answered the door, and Mr Goon nodded curtly. "Good day, ma'am. I'd like a word with Frederick, please."

"He's out," Mrs Trotteville said smoothly. "They all met in Frederick's shed this morning at nine, and the next thing I knew they'd gone off somewhere. Why?"

"Police matter," said Mr Goon, annoyed. "I'd like you to let me into Frederick's shed, if you don't mind. He has something that doesn't rightfully belong to him."

Mrs Trotteville narrowed her eyes. "Such as?"

"Books, ma'am. Library books, which he obtained from other library members, and which are part of an ongoing investigation. He has no right to have them, Mrs Trotteville."

"Are you saying he _stole_ them?" the lady said sternly.

"Well, not exactly _stole_ them, ma'am..."

"So he has permission to have those books, then?" asked Mrs Trotteville, placing her hands on her hips.

"Well, Mrs Sharple did give him permission, yes, but—"

Mrs Trotteville sighed. "So what you're saying, Mr Goon, is that my son has a collection of books in his shed that he has every right to have?"

Mr Goon thought for a moment, then frowned. "Well, yes, ma'am, technically-speaking that's correct, but—"

Mrs Trotteville closed the door gently but firmly in his face.

Mr Goon felt his neck heat up. He stared at the door as if he'd like to kick it down. But of course he didn't. He'd just have to come back later when that toad of a boy was home.

He climbed on his bike and rode off to see Mr Fisher instead. He lived at Peebles Manor, a giant sprawling place with acres of land surrounded by woods. Mr Goon felt very important as he banged on the door, and when a butler answered he was led into a grand drawing room and told to wait.

Mr Fisher arrived in due course, a scowl on his face. He was sucking on some sort of boiled sweet, and his cheek bulged. "Come about my precious coins?" he grumbled. "Found them, I hope?"

He crunched noisily and swallowed.

"Er, not yet, sir," said Mr Goon, turning his helmet around and around in his hands. "But I'm on the trail, sir. Er, I need to check your whereabouts on the night of the burglary—just routine, you understand."

Mr Fisher dug a hand into his pocket and rustled what sounded like a small paper bag. "I was here all day and all evening. I slept in my bed until eight the next morning. I got up, popped over to Marlow, had a meeting, then returned late afternoon and stopped by Johnson's office, where I found out my coins had been stolen."

"Yes, sir," said Mr Goon, staring with fascination as Mr Fisher produced from his pocket a small boiled sweet wrapped in gold paper. "Well, sir, can anyone vouch for your exact whereabouts between one and two that morning?"

"Well, good heavens, how should I know?" barked Mr Fisher, his face reddening. "My wife left me ten years ago, you know—can't think why. So no, nobody can vouch for me between those hours. Perhaps if I told you about the dream I had you could go and check that out and see if it's true."

He popped the sweet into his mouth.

Mr Goon frowned. "I don't see how I can, sir," he murmured. "Er...I notice you're eating boiled sweets, sir. May I ask if you have any with red wrapping paper?"

Mr Fisher stopped sucking his sweet and stared in amazement. Silently he pulled out the bag of sweets and held it out to Mr Goon, who took it carefully as if it contained eggs that might break and spill everywhere. "You, sir," said Mr Fisher stiffly, "have very bad manners."

"Oh, I don't _want_ one, Mr Fisher," said Mr Goon quickly, glancing into the bag. Yes—red wrappers, blue wrappers, green wrappers... "I'm just, er, following leads. Do you ever eat at the bakery on the High Street, sir?"

There was a long silence, and Mr Fisher's face reddened further. "No, I don't. Why on earth are you asking me that?"

"Er, just asking, sir. May I also take a look at your shoes and boots, sir?"

Mr Fisher looked at him as if he were mad, then threw up his hands and turned away. "I don't care. Do as you please. Ask my butler—he'll help you. Samson! Come and help this constable, would you?"

Samson, the butler, duly showed Mr Goon an enormous collection of shoes and boots, none of which had soles with a familiar pattern. Sighing, Mr Goon left the manor thoughtfully, wondering about the possibility of a rich man like Mr Fisher climbing a drainpipe and smashing through a window...Somehow it didn't seem likely.

He arrived home and was surprised to see an old man waiting for him in his drawing room. The housekeeper shrugged and said she felt awful letting the poor fellow wait outside, so she'd invited him in for a cup of tea.

"Can I help you?" said Mr Goon.

The old man climbed slowly to his feet. "Ooh, me back. Ooh, me joints. Ooh, me collywobbles."

"Er, you can remain seated if you like, sir," said Mr Goon, alarmed.

"Ooh, ta muchly, sir. Don't mind if I do. Care for a sausage roll?"

Mr Goon's mouth dropped open as the old man pulled a familiar baker's bag from his dirty coat pocket. He held it open, and inside was a half-eaten pastry.

"Couldn't manage it all, so you can 'ave it," the old man croaked. "Don't worry—I wiped the spit off."

Mr Goon recoiled, hastily shoving the bag back into the old man's hands. "Er, not for me, thank you. Can I help you?"

The old man slowly stuffed the bag back into his pocket, then reached into another. This time he withdrew a handful of sweets wrapped in bright red paper. "Care for one?" he said. "They's been in my pocket about a month, but they should be all right."

Amazed, Mr Goon stared at the handful of sweets. Could there somehow be a connection...? But how _could_ there be?

And then something dawned on him. Perhaps the old man had been the one to _arrange the burglary_ at the library—and he'd been there in the school field waiting for the burglar to bring him the books!

"Right," Mr Goon announced loudly. "Take off your shoes, old man, and let me see the soles."

The old man suddenly burst into a horrendous coughing fit and staggered. But then he seemed to get himself under control and slowly straighten up. Mr Goon opened his mouth to say something, but the old man continued to straighten until he was no longer hunched over. He squared his shoulders and placed his walking stick against the chair, then stood relaxed and composed.

Mr Goon realised in a flash the man wasn't as old and feeble as he'd first made out. Maybe this explained a few things. Maybe it was him, after all, who smashed his way into the library. Maybe he had even climbed the drainpipe and—

"Good morning, Mr Goon," came a voice that seemed totally out of place from the mouth of this strange old man. The voice shocked Mr Goon—it was familiar somehow.

And, all of a sudden, he felt like he was in a bad dream. His knees started to wobble. "F-F-Frederick?" he stammered, taking a step back.

"Yes, it's me," said the old man, and removed the thick-rimmed glasses. And Mr Goon suddenly saw that it was indeed Frederick Trotteville: the bright shining eyes, the confident posture, the air of meddling menace...yes, it was him all right.

Mr Goon staggered and reached for a chair. He leaned on it for a moment, and the back of his neck started heating up. "You—you toad!" he wheezed. "What do you mean by this, coming here and—and tricking your way in here, making a fool of me!"

Fatty pulled off his hat, dug his fingers into his forehead, and peeled back what seemed like his scalp and hair. It was really quite shocking, Mr Goon thought, even though he knew it was just a wig. "I came to talk to you," the boy said in a calm voice, "and to set things straight."

"Get out!" roared Mr Goon, hardly able to believe the boy's cheek. "I've a good mind to report you!"

"There's no need," said Fatty, removing his revolting yellow teeth. "Superintendent Jenks has already given me a stern ticking off for messing about and leaving you false clues. I'm here on his orders, to set things right and perhaps compare notes."

Stunned, Mr Goon was speechless.

"The boiled sweet in the red wrapper," Fatty said, counting off his fingers, "the paper bag from the bakers, and the scrap of paper with the message on it. Those are not real clues. We left them for you to find, and we're most dreadfully sorry. It won't happen again."

Mr Goon's jaw worked but no sound came out except a sputtering sound.

Fatty went on calmly. "I don't expect you to like me, or even be civil to me, and I certainly don't expect you to let me in on anything you've found out. But the superintendent asked me to come and see you, and tell you everything I know. So I will."

He took a breath, and began. "We know that the library was broken into at around one in the morning a couple of nights ago. We know that the coin appraiser's office was broken into an hour later, at around two. We also know that, in both cases, a footprint with a distinct pattern was found—one on the window sill at the library and the other on the tin roof of the brick shed behind Green Meadows."

"You—how do you know all this?" demanded Mr Goon, finally finding his voice. He clenched and unclenched his fists, badly wanting to box that toad of a boy's ears.

"Just simple detective work, Mr Goon," said Fatty smoothly. "Now, because of the matching footprint, and the fact that one burglary happened just an hour after the other, we believe the burglars are one and the same man. Furthermore, we believe that man to be Carl Westlake."

Mr Goon blinked. "What? Carl Westlake? Why would you—What evidence do you have that _he's_ involved?"

"When all the books on crime were stolen from the library," Fatty went on, "and then dumped in the old school field, we assumed one would be missing. But they were all accounted for, so we then assumed the burglar was after one of the remaining crime books—one of those still being borrowed by library members. Well, it turns out that, in fact, we were all right the first time. The burglar was after one of those he stole from the library that night."

Mr Goon shook his head in disbelief. "But he _didn't_ steal one! He dumped the lot in the field."

"He didn't take the book away with him—but he _took the dust jacket_," said Fatty mysteriously. "He wasn't after the book itself, just something he'd scribbled on the back of it. His son Peter had borrowed three books, and his father received a telephone call and scribbled something on the back of one of them. Then, when Peter returned the books to the library later that same day, his father must have panicked and rushed out to get it back. I actually bumped into him at five minutes to five as I was leaving that afternoon. He came in too late—Mrs Sharple was about to close up."

Mr Goon's knees wobbled and he sat heavily in a chair. Fatty sat down also, and continued speaking in a low, calm voice.

"Mr Goon, part of the puzzle is complete. Carl Westlake robbed both places, and while we know why he stole the coins, we don't know why he broke into the library. Maybe it doesn't matter—if you can arrest the man based on what we know, we may find out the rest of the answers. Most importantly, we must find out what happened to the coins."

Mr Goon thought long and hard. He seemed to be past his anger, and now felt worn out, unable to muster the energy to shout and rant at that toad of a boy as he quite clearly should. And something told him that complaining to Superintendent Jenks about the boy would not achieve anything, perhaps even make things worse. Headquarters' was not interested in petty feuds between constables and village folk; they were interested only in results.

Should he work with the boy? He'd already had to swallow his pride once during this case; would it hurt to do it again? He was skating on thin ice, after all, and his job meant more to him than getting one over on those meddling kids.

Not that he ever did. If he told Trotteville to keep his nose out and tried to solve the mystery—or mysteries—on his own, then he might end up coming in second once more. That toad was too clever by half, and he, Mr Goon, could not afford to lose his way this time. Perhaps it would be better to work with Frederick...at least until the near the end, when everything was solved and he could step in and take all the credit.

Work with Frederick Trotteville? Mr Goon felt rage bubbling up deep inside, and he knew he could _never_ work with him! But he could _pretend_ to, just to get information out of him until the time was right.

He took a deep breath. "All right, Frederick. We'll work together on this from now on."


	15. An arrest is made

**15. An arrest is made**

"I think it's awful that we have to work with Old Clear-Orf," said Larry with a scowl.

They all sat together in a small tea shop on the High Street. They'd considered visiting the bakery and munching on those delicious sausage rolls again, but somehow they couldn't resist the sight of fresh macaroons as they passed their favourite tea shop. They sat around a table with a plate piled high before them. Lunchtime was at least an hour and a half away yet.

Fatty nodded. "Awful as it may be, the superintendent asked us nicely—and we don't want to get on his wrong side any more than Goon does. Besides, I really think Old Clear-Orf is in danger of losing his job. Can you imagine Buster not having those fat ankles to bite?"

Everyone laughed, and Buster—sitting patiently on the floor with his tongue hanging out—pricked up his ears and glanced at them all in turn.

"He wants another macaroon," said Bets. "Can I give him one, Fatty?"

"Certainly not!" said Fatty, shocked. "He's had three already, and they're far too fattening for him. Look at his round tummy!"

Pip wiped his hands on a napkin. "I wish I'd been able to see Old Clear-Orf's face when you went from being an old man to that young toad of a boy."

"Hey!" said Fatty, leaning across and punching Pip on the shoulder.

Pip laughed. "So tell us, what did Mr Goon say he was going to do, after you told him everything we know?"

"Just that he'd think about it all and get back to us. I think he was a little put out that the superintendent hadn't bothered to phone him and mention that Carl Westlake might be involved, but it's his own fault for being such an idiot all the time. Maybe in future he'll _think_ for a change."

"Fat chance," said Larry.

"Anyway," said Fatty, staring at the plate of macaroons and wondering if he dare have a fourth, "he was very quiet as I left—and no wonder, after all our false clues! I thought I was going to choke with laughter when he asked to see my boots."

Everyone laughed, remembering Fatty's hilarious story.

"Anyway," Fatty went on, frowning, "like I said, he was very quiet as I left...and I got the feeling he had something on his mind, something he was feeling smug about. I wouldn't put it past him to go and solve this mystery on his own and not tell us anything more."

"But he doesn't _know_ anything more," said Bets. "Not now we know about that clue he found in the alley—the one we missed."

"Yes, and we only missed it because we're short enough to pass by that overhanging tree without getting snagged on it," Larry said. "We were so busy staring at the ground we didn't even think to look up."

"Very remiss of us," groaned Fatty. "But anyway, apparently the burglar got caught on that branch and left a piece of his black woolly hat behind, so Mr Goon says. That's good evidence—if we find the woolly hat it came from. It would be good if we could get into Carl Westlake's house and look for that hat, and while we're at it we could check his shoes too. If we found that black woolly hat, with a thread missing, and the shoes with the correct pattern...well, that would be enough to put him away, I should think."

"Especially if we found the coins at his house as well," Pip said.

Fatty shook his head. "No chance of that, I'm afraid. People like Carl Westlake don't sell valuable coins—they just steal them and get paid for the job. I should think Carl handed them straight over to whoever hired him."

"And we still don't know who that might be," said Daisy, looking glum. "But if there's enough evidence to arrest Carl Westlake, well, surely he'll spill the beans on the man who hired him."

Everyone pondered that, and eventually decided that people like Carl Westlake probably _wouldn't_ spill the beans. "He's been in prison a few times," said Fatty. "He's tough, and not likely to roll over on his accomplice. No, we have to figure out for ourselves who his accomplice is—and hopefully before Goon does anything silly like arrest the wrong man."

"So where do we start?" asked Larry, pushing the macaroons away. "Ugh, I can't manage another. My lunch is already ruined."

Fatty pondered for a while. "I'm afraid it's out of our hands. We can't very well search Carl's place for shoes and woolly hats, but Goon can if he gets a warrant. And—"

"A warrant?" said Bets. "What's that?"

Pip rolled his eyes. "It's when policemen get permission from the authorities to barge into someone's house and search the place. They have to have reasonable grounds to do so first, which I think Goon does—but if Goon turned up on Carl's doorstep without a warrant, then Carl has the right to refuse entry. And if Goon went away and came back with a warrant, then Carl might have got rid of any evidence by then."

"Quite right," said Fatty approvingly. "So Old Clear-Orf had better get it right first time, or else." He sighed. "There's something else Goon can do—something he thought of himself, actually, which I thought was pretty smart. He can check Carl's phone records, to see who called him in the afternoon before the robbery."

There was a silence, and then Larry nodded slowly. "You think his accomplice phoned him that afternoon?"

"Well, it's likely, don't you think?" said Fatty, a little impatiently. "Carl received a phone call and wrote down something on the back of a book, something worth breaking into the library for. It _must_ have been related to the break-in at Mr Johnson's office. What could have been written on that book? Come on, everyone. Think!"

"If it was Carl's employer or accomplice telling him to go and do a job," said Daisy slowly, "maybe he was supplying directions to the building. Or an address."

"Good," said Fatty, nodding. "Could be. But how difficult can it be to remember an address? The address is Room 22, Green Meadows. You _might_ write something simple like that down as someone's telling you over the phone, but I doubt it could be forgotten so easily. No, it must be something else, something he can't hope to remember."

"Wait—what was it Peter Westlake said?" asked Pip. "He said something about numbers and letters?"

Fatty smacked the table with the palm of his hand and everyone jumped. "I'm an idiot! Yes, he _did_ say that. All right, then—a string of numbers and letters. Any ideas?"

"Numbers _and_ letters," said Larry, frowning.

Everyone was silent for what seemed an age, but no ideas sprung to mind. Fatty cleared his throat. "All right. Consider this: it was something vital to the job he was about to do. Carl Westlake never had any intention of stealing a bunch of books from the library—he intended only to do one job that night, at Green Meadows. But he _had_ to get back that dust jacket, because the string of numbers and letters was vital to the job. He couldn't do the job without it."

"And it had to be that night," Pip said thoughtfully. "Mr Johnson said he put the coins in the safe that evening before he left, and the owner was due back the following day to pick them up. That means Carl _must_ have known the coins would only be there that night—so he had to break in and steal back that dust jacket because he couldn't wait until the library reopened the next day."

Fatty nodded slowly. "Pip, you're absolutely right. Gosh, I need another macaroon. We're doing well, Find-Outers."

He bit into a macaroon and chewed slowly, with the others lost in thought.

"How did Carl know the safe's combination?" asked Daisy. "He's a crook, but is he clever enough to get into a safe without even damaging it?"

"And yet, Mr Johnson was the only one who knew the combination," said Larry, nodding. "So unless he phoned Carl and told him—"

Fatty jumped up with a yelp. Everyone in the tea shop glanced around, alarmed, and Fatty hurriedly sat down again. His heart was beating fast. "That's it," he whispered fiercely. "Mr Johnson must have phoned Carl with the safe's combination number—and Carl wrote it on the first thing that came to hand, which was his son Peter's library book. Peter said it was string of numbers and letters—probably something like 'R23, L37' or whatever—'L' for 'left' and 'R' for 'right'. See? You turn safe dials backwards and forwards, left and right, to certain secret numbers...and that's what the string of numbers and letters are for. _That's_ why Carl had to have that dust jacket back! He couldn't open the safe otherwise!"

"Fatty!" said Bets, her eyes shining. "You've done it! You've solved the mystery!"

"We've done it," said Fatty warmly. "All of us. We discussed it, tossed ideas back and forth, and finally happened on the truth. We need to go and see Mr Goon straight away."

They paid hurriedly, jumped on their bikes, and headed over to Mr Goon's house. But to their surprise, his housekeeper open the door and told them he was out. "Gone to make an arrest," she said excitedly. "He has half the police force out!"

"Where's he gone?" asked Fatty urgently. "To the Westlake's?"

"Westlake, yes," the housekeeper said, nodding rapidly. "He left fifteen minutes ago."

"Let's hurry," said Fatty grimly, tearing off down the road with Buster in his basket. "We might get there just in time to see Carl being taken away. I can't _believe_ Old Clear-Orf went ahead without us, after all the help we've given him!"

It was a ten minute ride to Springwater Close. As they tore around the corner into the cul-de-sac they were startled to see such a buzz of activity—three police cars, constables everywhere, neighbours standing out on their doorsteps gossiping. And in the middle of it all was Mr Goon, looking very important indeed, ordering people about.

The Find-Outers got as close as they could before policemen blocked their way. If only Superintendent Jenks were here, thought Fatty. How annoying to be left out of all the fun at the last minute!

Mr Goon caught sight of them at last and spent a few moments ignoring them with a smug look on his face. Then he marched ponderously towards them, obviously enjoying himself. "Ho!" he said loudly. "Here to watch the police in action, are you? Well, it's all over now, I'm afraid. I got a warrant, see, and I marched straight in there and searched the place. Found Carl Westlake's shoes in the cupboard within minutes—and of course the soles match the prints found at both crime scenes."

Fatty tried to contain his annoyance. "That's all very good, Mr Goon, but what else?"

"The woolly hat, you mean?" said Mr Goon majestically. "A black balaclava, same as all criminals wear. I guessed as much. It's a woolly hat that you pull down over your face, and it becomes a mask with eyeholes and—"

"Yes, I _know_ that," Fatty snapped. "But what about the dust jacket? Did you find that?"

Mr Goon raised an eyebrow. "Think I'm stupid? Of course I did. It's been bagged as evidence, same as the woolly hat and the shoes. Ho, yes—very important clue, that. Unless I'm very much mistaken, the combination number to Mr Johnson's safe is written on the back, which connects Mr Westlake very firmly to the burglary at Green Meadows as well as the library."

"And Mr Johnson...?" asked Fatty.

"Mr Johnson is being apprehended as we speak," Mr Goon said haughtily. "I was right all along. I have instincts, you know, and my instincts told me from the start it was a put-up job. Well, since Mr Johnson was the only one who knew the combination to the safe—by his own admittance, I might add—he's landed himself right in the soup."

"What about the phone records?" asked Larry suddenly. "Do they show a phone call from Mr Johnson's office to Carl's house?"

Mr Goon shook his head. "No, but someone phoned from a public phone booth. Covering his tracks, see? But no matter, we have what we need—except the coins, which are still missing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. The superintendent will be here shortly and I want to have everything nice and wrapped up."

He sauntered off, whistling in an annoying way.

Fatty turned to the others and shrugged. "Well, there's nothing more we can do here. Mr Goon won through in the end."

Bets was almost in tears. "But it's so unfair!" she wailed. "We worked it all out—everything, just now in the tea shop—and Mr Goon's going to take all the credit!"

Fatty put his arm around her and glanced about at all the onlookers. "Perhaps it's for the best. If Mr Goon hadn't solved this, he might have lost his job. And he did, you know—solve it I mean. After I told him everything we knew at his house, he must have pondered everything the same way we did and came to the same conclusion—and beat us to it."

They stood for a while, watching the activity. Carl Westlake was finally marched out of his house looking extremely bad tempered. His hands were cuffed behind his back as three policemen escorted him to one of the police cars. In the doorway of the house stood a forlorn figure, Carl's son Peter. He looked confused.

"Poor thing," said Daisy, when Fatty confirmed who he was. "His mother died some time ago, and now his father's being marched back to prison. I wonder what will become of Peter."

Nobody knew, but they felt sorry for him. On the other hand, he was a college student so was probably getting on for eighteen, if he wasn't already—so at least he wouldn't be in foster care for long. He was an adult, and could make his own way in the world. He might even be better off without his father's bad influence, thought Fatty.

They decided not to wait around for Superintendent Jenks. Let Goon have the glory. The Five Find-Outers would get the better of him next time.


	16. It's not quite over yet!

**16. It's not quite over yet!**

Dejected, the Find-Outers split and headed home for lunch. They hardly said a word as they parted, such was their misery at being beaten to the finish line by the pompous policeman.

Mrs Trotteville seemed to sense something was wrong, and Fatty told her everything in such a pained tone that she laughed. "Oh, Frederick, you can't win them all! It's not the end of the world, you know. Goodness, you're only a few days into your holiday. Maybe something else will crop up for you to solve."

That was true, Fatty thought as he ate his lunch without really tasting it. He cheered up a little. As disappointing as this mystery had turned out, there was still plenty of time for others.

"I find it odd that this Mr Johnson fellow would plan such a robbery with a thug like Carl Westlake," said his mother as she got up to leave the table, "and yet be so careless as to put the spotlight on himself when it came to the safe's combination. You'd think he would have deliberately passed on the combination of his safe to others, wouldn't you, to make it look like anyone could have got into it"

Fatty chewed on that for a while and came to the conclusion his mother was right. It did seem like a very foolish slip up.

If it _was_ a slip up, he thought. He remembered what he'd read in a book once, about alibis. Sometimes you could tell when someone was innocent just because they had no way of confirming their story. A person planning a crime would be sure to cover his tracks and direct suspicion elsewhere—but Mr Johnson was adamant he was the only person who knew the safe's combination.

The more Fatty thought about it, the more he convinced himself that Mr Johnson might not be the brains behind the operation after all. If he was, he would have made sure to let others know the safe's combination so as to create other possible suspects.

Fatty phoned Larry. "I think we should meet up again," he said. "I'm not sure that Mr Johnson is the right man. Let's all meet at Green Meadows at half past two, and we'll discuss things at the crime scene."

"What?" said Larry, sounding puzzled. "Do you know something new?"

"Not new," said Fatty. "Just...well, something doesn't seem right. I can't put my finger on it, but I have a feeling we have all the pieces to the puzzle and aren't fitting them together properly."

"Right," Larry said. "I'll phone Pip and Bets, if you like, and we'll see you at half past two."

Fatty put the phone down and thought for a while. Should he bother to phone Old Clear-Orf? No. Superintendent Jenks had asked the Find-Outers to straighten things out, tell Goon about the false clues, and let him in on everything they knew. And Fatty had done just that. Then Goon had stolen the limelight for himself, taking all the credit even though it was Fatty who had found out about Peter Westlake's father—and it was Fatty who had told him about the dust jacket with something scribbled on it. Without those vital clues Goon would never have made it to the end—and yet he'd gone ahead and taken the credit anyway.

Grim and determined, Fatty left the house, climbed on his bike, and set off to Green Meadows.

He arrived a good twenty minutes before the others were due. He parked his bike and tied an indignant Buster to the lamppost, and then wandered around to the back, looking for inspiration. The glass had been swept up at last, but other than that nothing had changed. Nothing leapt out at Fatty as strange or odd.

He returned to the front of the building and marched into the lobby. The caretaker was perched high on a stepladder, changing a light bulb. Fatty stopped to look at the sign board that listed all the tenants of the building. Any clues here? There seemed to be about forty small offices spread over three floors, and Mr Johnson worked at the end of the second floor around the back.

Lucky for the burglar! Drainpipes were typically fixed to corners of buildings, and because Mr Johnson worked in the end office, the drainpipe ran up the wall alongside his window. The burglar would have found it impossible to gain access without that drainpipe, unless he carried around a twenty foot ladder.

Was that significant in any way?

Probably not, Fatty thought. He sighed and stared into space, racking his brains for inspiration.

"What you staring at?" asked the caretaker suddenly.

Fatty jumped, realising the white-haired old man was watching him closely. "What? Oh, nothing."

"What you doing here, anyway? I've got my eye on you, so I have."

Fatty smiled. "I, er, know someone that works here," he said, jabbing his thumb upwards. This was true enough, although he'd only met Mr Johnson briefly.

The caretaker looked him up and down. "Oh yes? And who might that be?" he demanded suspiciously.

"Mr Johnson," Fatty said. "You might know him? He evaluates coins to see if they're worth anything."

"Yes, I know him," said the caretaker. "But he's not here, you know. He was arrested this morning."

"What?" said Fatty, putting on a disbelieving voice. "Mr Johnson? Arrested? Whatever for?"

"Theft," the caretaker said, shaking his head. "Had the police everywhere this morning. They turned his office upside down, then marched the man off in handcuffs...Anyway, he's not here so you'd best be off." He climbed down and collapsed his ladder, then tilted it and made off along the hall.

Fatty rushed after him, eager to stick around as long as possible. "Can I help you with that?"

"Er, well, that's kind of you," the old man said over his shoulder. "But I can manage."

"Are you sure?" said Fatty, tailing him closely. "It looks very heavy."

The caretaker barked a laugh as he opened the door to a storeroom and struggled to manoeuvre the ladder inside. "It is. And this is the only storeroom big enough to keep a ladder this size. When the building opened a few years ago, the management employed me to look after the place during the day. You know, change bulbs in the offices, mop and sweep the lobby floor, replace lost door keys...stuff like that. But they didn't tell me I'd have to carry this heavy old ladder up and down the stairs. At my age!"

"But why would you need to?" asked Fatty, not particularly interested but keen to keep the old man talking. Perhaps he might learn something. "The ceiling's not so high on the upper floors, is it? Why would you need a great big stepladder like this upstairs?"

The caretaker snorted. "That's what _they_ told me. 'Just buy one of those tiny stepladders for the upper floors,' they said, 'and we'll reimburse you.' So I did—but I bought two of them, one for the first floor and one for the second."

Fascinating, thought Fatty with a sigh. This was getting him nowhere, although the caretaker's mention of replacing lost keys struck him as interesting. He racked his brains for a way to bring the conversation back to keys.

But the caretaker continued blithely, obviously enjoying having someone to talk to. "_Then_ I had to nag them to install a folding ladder in the attic," he said. "See, those small stepladders are fine for reaching up to the ceiling to change a bulb, but they're not much good for climbing up into the attic. I'd have to lug this heavy old thing up to the second floor every time I went up there—at my age!"

"Do people lose keys very often?" asked Fatty, finally giving up on a more subtle line of questioning.

The caretaker shrugged. "From time to time." He closed the storeroom door and frowned. "You still here, boy? You'd best be off. I doubt Mr Johnson will be coming back to work today."

He made off down the hall and disappeared into what looked like a small windowless office with a desk facing the wall. Before the door swung closed Fatty saw a large board on the wall. The board had pegs sticking out, arranged in neat rows, and on each peg hung one or two keys.

So office keys might be obtainable if someone was sneaky enough, thought Fatty. That might be important to know. He'd have to chew on that some more.

Sighing, he returned to the lobby and waited. He still had five minutes before the others were due, so he nipped up two flights of stairs quickly and along the hall to Room 22. Naturally the door was locked, as Mr Johnson was currently in a cell at police headquarters. It was a shame Fatty couldn't get into the office to have a poke around.

Think, Fatty, think. He stood in silence and racked his brains, trying to remember if there was something he'd overlooked—a clue he'd picked up but hadn't considered properly...

A woman emerged from an office nearby and walked quickly along the hall, then disappeared into another room.

There were the keys hanging from a board in the caretaker's office...but if that was a clue, how exactly did it fit in? Mr Johnson's window had been smashed, and the burglar had climbed in that way. He didn't _need_ a key to the door.

Fatty closed his eyes for a moment and stood quietly, with only the faint sounds of murmured voices coming through closed office doors to either side of him. He might be grasping at straws, but being defeated by Mr Goon had stirred him up and he was determined to find an alternative ending to the mystery—if indeed there was one. There seemed to be no doubt that Carl Westlake had robbed both the library and Mr Johnson's office, but something—some small nagging doubt at the back of Fatty's head—was telling him Mr Johnson was not the man who had arranged it all.

But he _had_ to be. If he really hadn't written the safe's combination down anywhere, and kept it entirely in his memory, how could anyone else have got hold of it? It was possible that Carl Westlake had cracked the safe himself, but that was a specialist job and required careful, methodical, patient work—and plenty of time.

Fatty recalled what he had read about cracking safes by ear. With a suitable listening device, such as a doctor's stethoscope, it was possible to turn the dial very slowly and hear the tumblers fall into place inside the locking mechanism. Of course, just getting the right set of numbers wasn't enough; opening the door required that the tumblers fall into place in the _correct order_—but once a thief worked out which numbers to use, it was a simple matter of trying them in a different order until the safe opened.

But all this required time—peace and quiet to work on the safe without having to worry about being rushed. And if Carl Westlake smashed a window to get in, he was hardly going to have time to hang around and crack a safe in peace.

Unless the safe was cracked _before_ the window was smashed.

Feeling a tingle of excitement, Fatty walked slowly to the other end of the hall and back again, thinking hard.

Could that be the answer? That the thief stole the coins out of the safe _before_ the window was smashed? Maybe smashing the glass was just a cover up, to make it _seem_ like the thief knew the combination to the safe—thereby pointing the finger at Mr Johnson.

Fatty thought once again about the caretaker's spare keys—because of course the thief would need one to get into Mr Johnson's office in the first place. Perhaps the caretaker himself was the thief!

So...had the caretaker crept into Mr Johnson's office late that night, spent an hour cracking the safe, and stolen the coins? Then carefully locked the door, gone around to the back and smashed the window to make it look like a burglar had got in that way?

That was an interesting idea. The caretaker would certainly want to make it look like someone smashed their way in from the outside, rather than through a locked door—no, _two_ locked doors, if you counted the main entrance. But there was no way an old man like the caretaker could have climbed up the drainpipe, and besides, Carl Westlake had left his footprint behind on the tin roof below the window. No, Carl himself had climbed that drainpipe.

So had the caretaker been working _with_ Carl? Perhaps the caretaker stole the coins, and then signalled for Carl to go ahead and smash the window?

Or perhaps _someone else entirely_ had obtained a key to Mr Johnson's office and stolen the coins. A fellow worker—or anyone from the street, for that matter. Maybe Mr Fisher, when he'd popped along to see Mr Johnson and dropped off the coins. _Anyone_ could have snuck into the caretaker's small office and borrowed a key for a while, perhaps even nipped out to get a copy cut and returned the original soon after.

An office door stood wide open, but there didn't seem to be anyone in there. As Fatty stared into the room, wondering if Mr Johnson ever left _his_ office unattended, a large man burst through from the staircase and, out of breath, hurried into the office and slammed the door shut.

His mind buzzing with ideas, Fatty shook his head and returned to the staircase. Perhaps a chat with the others would help, as it had in the tea shop. When they all got their heads together and tossed ideas back and forth, one thing seemed to lead to another. But he felt he was a little closer to the truth now.

He arrived back in the lobby just in time to meet the others crowding in through the doors. Fatty glanced about to check the caretaker wasn't around, then said in a low voice, "I'm trying to think of alternatives. Let's assume for the moment that Mr Johnson is innocent. We don't _know_ that he is, but I have a feeling there's more to this than meets the eye."

"I had that feeling too," said Bets. "Mr Johnson just doesn't seem the type."

Pip rolled his eyes. "Bets—"

But Fatty nodded and interrupted. "I agree. But there's also the fact that he was so adamant about keeping the safe's combination to himself. Now I'm wondering if perhaps the thief was a professional safe-cracker who got into that room _before_ the window was smashed. He might have got hold of a key from the caretaker's office, then spent all night quietly cracking the safe. When he was finished, he locked the door again, and arranged for Carl Westlake to climb up the drainpipe and smash the window.

"But, Fatty," said Larry, scratching his head, "if that's the case, then what was the library break-in all about? Mr Goon said himself that the dust jacket found at Carl's house had the combination written on it. That's why he broke into the library, isn't it?—because he needed that number to open the safe."

Fatty stared at Larry, then groaned and shook his head slowly. "I'm such an idiot. I got so carried away with the idea of keys and safe-cracking...My head is muddled. You're right—my little idea doesn't work." He paused, then cleared his throat. "All right, let's just start over. Think, everyone. Concentrate not on _who_ could have got hold of that combination, but _how_. If we know _how_, perhaps the rest will into place."

They stood in silence, pondering. It would look funny, Fatty thought idly, if anyone walked into the lobby to see five children standing there so still and silent.

After a while, Daisy sighed. "I just don't understand it. If Mr Johnson didn't write down the combination, then the thief must have been a mind-reader. Either that or he somehow watched Mr Johnson open the safe and memorised the numbers—but I feel sure Mr Johnson would have been careful about opening it, wouldn't he? He wouldn't have opened it while someone was standing there looking over his shoulder."

"Maybe the thief can somehow see through walls," Bets said. "Or maybe he hung around outside the office window, peering through while—"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Bets!" Pip said rudely. "Hung around outside the window? Clinging to the drainpipe three floors up, you mean? In broad daylight?"

And then Fatty swung around and made an exclamation. He started breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Are you all right?" asked Larry.

But Larry's voice seemed to come from far away, a distant echo that Fatty ignored as pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. "I...I've solved it!" he gasped. "Wait, no I haven't—yes! Yes, I _have!_ It's all coming to me...I just need to think some more, get it straight in my head..."

"Oh, tell us!" cried Bets. "Fatty, what are you thinking?"

"I know who did it!" Fatty exclaimed, starting to dance a silly jig. "I know who telephoned Carl Westlake with the safe's combination—and I know how he got it! I've solved the mystery! I know who arranged to steal the coins!"

The others stared at him, open-mouthed. "But...who?" asked Daisy. "How?"

Fatty grinned and a mischievous feeling came over him. "I'll tell you all about it soon, I promise. Let's call Superintendent Jenks first. And Mr Goon too. He'll want to know he arrested the wrong man! Mr Johnson is innocent!"

And, leaving a circle of very surprised Find-Outers, Fatty rushed to find a telephone. There was one in the caretaker's small office, but at first the old man wouldn't let him anywhere near it—until Fatty said he wanted to call the police. Then he relented and stood by while Fatty dialled the number for the police headquarters.

"Superintendent Jenks, please," he said happily.

After a moment he was put through, and a crisp voice answered. "Jenks here."

"Sir, it's Frederick Trotteville. I know who stole the coins from Mr Johnson's safe."

There was a long pause. "Er, Frederick, we already know that. It was Mr Johnson. He hired Carl Westlake to do the job, and—"

"No, sir," Fatty said triumphantly. "It was Carl Westlake who did the job, sir, but it wasn't Mr Johnson who arranged it."

Again, a long silence. Then Superintendent Jenks said softly, "And you're sure, Frederick? You're saying Goon is wrong after all? I must say, we have no real hard evidence to prove Johnson did any such thing, so if you have something else...?"

"Yes, sir. If you'd like to come over to Green Meadows, I'll explain how it was done, and who did it. And—if you can, please bring Mr Johnson along, and the owner of the coins, Mr Fisher."

"You and your theatrics, Frederick," the superintendent chuckled. "Right, I'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes. I'll telephone Goon and get him along too. You sit tight, and I'll see you soon."


	17. Superintendent Jenks arrives

**17. Superintendent Jenks arrives**

Fatty rubbed his hands and returned to lobby, where the others stood confused but excited. Larry demanded to know what was going on, but Fatty just grinned and shook his head.

"You'll find out soon enough," he said, "but I need to check something before Superintendent Jenks gets here. Come with me, all of you."

Even the caretaker looked confused. He watched as the Find-Outers headed for the staircase, and then called out to them. "'Ere, what's going on? I don't want a lot of kids running about the place! Just stay down here until the police arrive—although why you called them I don't know."

"I need to have a look in the attic," said Fatty. "I want to check something before they arrive, to make sure I'm right."

"You want to get into the attic?" the caretaker said, startled. He started shaking his head. "Now, look—"

"The police are on their way, and it's important," said Fatty firmly.

But the caretaker was having none of it. "Then we'll just have to wait until they get here. You wait right here for them. This is an office building, you know—there are people working!"

Exasperated, Fatty and the others returned to the lobby and waited under the watchful eye of the caretaker, who stood leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. His white hair seemed to stick out more when he was cross.

"Do tell us what's going on," Bets pleaded Fatty. "We have time while we're waiting for the police!"

"Not right now," Fatty said, glancing towards the caretaker. "And besides, you have all the same clues I have. Work it out for yourselves!" And once again he grinned at his friends' frustrated expressions.

After what seemed an age, a huge police car pulled up—and then another. Superintendent Jenks stepped out onto the pavement, and Fatty went to greet him amidst a volley of excited barks from Buster, who was still tied to the lamppost.

"Sir, thanks for coming," he said, glancing about. "And I see Mr Johnson is here too. Good. I wanted to ask him something."

"Goon is on his way," said Superintendent Jenks, standing with his hands behind his back and a bemused look on his face. "I trust you've some interesting information for me, Frederick. I brought along a few men, just in case. Knowing you, you know exactly who Carl's accomplice was and where the coins are."

Fatty suddenly felt embarrassed. "Ah. Well, I know who did it, and how it was done...but I don't know where the coins are, I'm afraid."

"Well, let's see what's what," said the superintendent, and stepped through into the lobby. Larry, Pip, Daisy and Bets nodded and smiled, but refrained from crowding him as they normally did. After all, the superintendent was here on very important business.

Three other policemen followed him in, bringing with them Mr Johnson, who looked dishevelled and tired. They all stopped in the middle of the lobby, and the caretaker stood to attention as if he were in the army.

"Frederick?" the superintendent said with a raised eyebrow.

"Er, just waiting for Mr Fisher, sir," said Fatty. "But while we're waiting, we'll need to make sure we have a key to Mr Johnson's office. I don't know if Mr Johnson has his office key with him, after being in a police cell, but if not the caretaker will have a spare."

"His personal effects are right here," said one of the officers, holding up a small envelope. He fished inside and found a small bunch of keys, and Mr Johnson nodded to confirm his office key was one of them.

Buster started barking again, and Fatty smiled to himself. That was Buster's special bark that he reserved for pompous policemen. Sure enough Mr Goon burst in through the door at that moment, looking red-faced and extremely angry.

"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded. He glanced around the group, then cleared his throat and spoke to the superintendent. "Er, sir, I thought this had all been cleared up. It was an open and shut case, sir. We have both men involved, and we have only to find the coins and return them to Mr Fisher."

"Well, let's hope you're right, Goon," said the superintendent with a hard edge to his voice. "Are you sure you don't want to think a little on this? Perhaps revise your report?"

Mr Goon, breathing hard, turned slowly and stared at Fatty with such malice the boy felt like stepping backwards out of range. Mr Goon turned slowly back to the superintendent and gritted his teeth. "I only know what I know, sir. I'm positive Carl Westlake broke in, sir, and I'm fairly certain Mr Johnson here arranged the whole thing."

"_Fairly_ certain, Mr Goon?" said the superintendent, looking surprised. "So you're not as sure as you were earlier today?"

Another car pulled up outside, a large gold Rolls Royce, and a chauffeur got out and opened the rear door. Out stepped who Fatty guessed must be Mr James Fisher, a large, red-faced man rather like Mr Goon. He strode in through the door without a single word to his chauffeur.

Inside, he put his hands on his hips and glared around the group. "This had better be good. Wasting my afternoon when I should be working. What's the meaning of this? You have the culprits, don't you? So unless you've found my coins, I'm not really interested in playing games."

Superintendent Jenks stepped forward and introduced himself, then the others in turn. "You know Mr Goon already, I presume, and of course you know Mr Johnson."

"Yes—the bounder!" roared Mr Fisher suddenly. Bets crept behind Fatty's back. "I've a good mind to thrash him until he—"

"Now, now," the superintendent said calmly, holding up his hands. "I think you're about to find out that Mr Johnson is innocent of any crime."

"Pah!" snorted Mr Goon.

They all trooped upstairs, a very strange group consisting of five policemen, five children, a caretaker, an office worker, and a very red-faced rich man.

They gathered outside Mr Johnson's office, and the policeman with the coin appraiser's personal effects unlocked the door. They all marched inside and suddenly the room seemed very crowded.

Fatty frowned. "I need to ask Mr Masters something, too." He turned to one of the officers. "Would you mind fetching him in here? He's just next door."

The policeman, looking amused, nodded and left the room.

Fatty looked about and cleared his throat. "Well, we all know that Carl Westlake did the dirty work. There's no question about that. He was telephoned by someone a little cleverer than him, and given the combination number to the safe. Unfortunately, he wrote the combination number on the back of his son's library book—who returned that book to the library shortly afterwards!"

"Hence the break in at the library," said the superintendent, nodding. "Ah, this must be Mr Masters. Come on in. Join the party."

Ted Masters looked surprised at the amount of people gathered in his colleague's office, but smiled at Mr Johnson when he realised he was there too. He also smiled at James Fisher, whom he seemed to recognise. Mr Fisher gave a curt nod.

"Yes," said Fatty, "When Carl realised the combination he'd written down was sitting on a bookshelf at the library, he panicked. The job was on that night! He couldn't wait until the morning to retrieve that book, so he headed straight to the library that afternoon—but got there too late to have a good look around. So he did the next best thing—he went out the back door and made sure to check if there were any deadbolts."

"Which there were," said Pip. "So instead of messing about at one o'clock in the morning, he just smashed the big window and got in that way."

Fatty nodded. "Right. He quickly scooped every crime book he could find off the shelf into a bag and got out of there. He went to the old school field and searched through the books quickly and quietly. When he found the book he'd written on, he snatched off the dust jacket and scarpered."

"We know all this," said Mr Goon. "We found the dust jacket in his house, along with a woolly hat with a tear in the front, and shoes with soles that matched the footprints we found at both crime scenes."

Fatty nodded again. "So the question is—who phoned Carl with the combination number?"

Mr Goon scowled. "Mr Johnson here said himself he was the only one who knew it."

"It's true," Mr Johnson said, nodding rapidly. "I don't care if it gets me into trouble saying this, but _no one_ could have known that number but me. I memorised it."

"And yet," said Fatty mysteriously, "someone knew it—and contacted Carl from a public phone box to tell him what it was. That someone also knew the coins were in the safe, and that they'd only be there one night."

Now Fatty looked about, relishing the rapt attention. "I wanted to ask Mr Masters something. Mr Masters—what time have you been leaving the office lately? Say in the last couple of weeks?"

Ted Masters jumped, looking startled. "Er...why?"

"Because I'm confused," said Fatty. He turned to Mr Johnson. "Why don't _you_ answer that question, Mr Johnson. What time has Mr Masters been leaving the office, as far as you know?"

Mr Johnson looked about, and when the superintendent nodded, he said, "Around half past four. He used to leave after me, working late into the evening, but in the last couple of weeks he's been leaving early. I've heard him locking his door, and sometimes he knocks on mine and says goodnight. And sometimes I forget he's already left and go to see him about something, and then wonder why there's no answer when I knock on his door!"

"All right," said Fatty, nodding. "Half past four. Would you agree with that, Mr Masters?"

"Of course," said the tanned man, grinning a bright white smile. "Is there a law against leaving early?"

"Er..."

Everyone turned in unison to the caretaker, who stood with one finger raised.

"Er," he said again, "I beg to differ, sirs, but I'm not sure that's right. I've seen Mr Masters leaving five or ten minutes after five every night for the last couple of weeks. I watch him walk through the lobby and out the doors, along with most other workers. I'm usually standing right there in the lobby, sweeping the floor. I sweep the floor twice a day; I mop it in the morning, then sweep it after lunch and again—"

"Thank you," said Fatty. "So, Mr Masters—which is it? Half past four, or ten past five?"

"What difference does it make?" he said, scowling suddenly. "What's it got to do with anything?"

Superintendent Jenks had an amused expression on his face as he said, "I'm sure Frederick is getting to that."

"Right, sir," said Fatty. "And now I need to ask the caretaker to allow a policeman access to the attic. I don't know what's up there, but I'm sure the caretaker knows."

The caretaker looked astonished. "There's nothing up there but water tanks, pipes, and a few boxes."

"Is it one large attic, running the length of the building?" asked Fatty. "I'm guessing it is, since there only seems to be one hatchway. I noticed it at the top of the staircase."

The caretaker shook his head. "Actually there's another at the far end, over the emergency stairs. But it's one large attic, yes. Why?"

Fatty turned to one of the policemen. "I wonder if you'd be good enough to go up there and make your way over so you're standing above this office?"

The policeman glanced at the superintendent, got a nod of approval, and went off with the caretaker. While they were gone, Fatty stared at Ted Masters. "It was you, wasn't it? You knew Mr Johnson dealt in valuable coins. You knew he had a safe in here, because all the offices have them—so it's a pretty sure bet that coins are going to be locked up in it once in a while. You know Mr Johnson pretty well, I should think, and over time have slowly gleaned from him how often valuable coins are brought in, and how long it takes to study them to find out how much they're worth. You knew, then, that coins are often locked in the safe overnight—and that most times they're only in there for one night, because Mr Johnson's done with them by the following day."

Fatty paused for breath, and the room was silent. Everyone turned to stare at the accountant.

"What _are_ you talking about, you stupid boy?" he snapped.

"No, this is all true," said Mr Johnson quietly. "Ted—tell me you know nothing about all this. Tell me you didn't somehow obtain my safe combination and give it to that Westlake fellow."

Ted spread his hands. "How _could_ I?"

"Yes—how could he?" Mr Goon demanded, glaring at Fatty.

Fatty smiled. "It's really quite simple..."


	18. A startling revelation

**18. A startling revelation**

Fatty was about to say something when, from above, there came a scuffling sound and heavy footsteps. A muffled voice spoke through the ceiling. "I'm right above you, sir."

"Anything out of place up there?" called Fatty.

Everyone stared upwards in silence. Then the policeman's voice came back. "This floorboard is loose. Hang on—I've got it." As he said that, his voice suddenly became a little clearer. "Yes, it looks like this board had been prised up, then put back. And all the insulation underneath has been pulled out and thrown aside. And—wait a second."

Breathless, Fatty watched with glee as what looked like a tiny black dot appeared in the middle of the ceiling. A finger poked through, and everyone in the room gasped.

"Look at that—a spy hole!" said one of the other constables. "He's been spying on Mr Johnson!"

"Oh, Fatty!" cried Daisy. "So Mr Masters has been spying on Mr Johnson and watching while he opens and closes the safe every night! That's how he found out the combination!"

Fatty nodded. "I should think he spent one late evening up there, prising up that board, removing the insulation beneath, and drilling a small hole through the ceiling. That was what caused the sprinkling of grey dust on the rug. It was hardly noticed until Mr Johnson swept up the glass. And Mr Masters must have worried about that dust being spotted, so he plugged up the hole with something the same colour as the ceiling, just in case Mr Johnson happened to glance upwards anytime."

Ted Masters was busy shaking his head nervously, muttering that the whole thing was preposterous.

Fatty went on, enjoying himself. Everyone was gazing from him to Mr Masters and back again, open-mouthed. "Once he got everything set up," he said happily, "it was a simple matter of locking his office at half past four, saying good night to Mr Johnson, and pretending to leave. Then he'd climb up into the attic through the hatch at the top of the stairs, probably pulling the ladder up after him and closing the hatch so no one would know anyone was up there. Then he'd walk very softly through the attic, lie down above the ceiling here, and remove the loose board and the little plug. And he'd watch for the next half an hour, waiting for Mr Johnson to tidy up his desk and put things away."

"And waiting for Mr Johnson to put valuable coins in the safe!" said Larry. He whistled. "And it wasn't long before Mr Fisher here came along one day with a _very_ valuable set—and sure enough, Mr Johnson put them in his safe and went home—watched all the time by Mr Masters in the attic."

Superintendent Jenks nodded. "And then Mr Masters got on the phone to Carl Westlake, gave him the combination to the safe, and set things in motion."

"Well, sort of, sir," said Fatty. "The thing is, Mr Masters had _already_ phoned Carl earlier that afternoon—so that bit doesn't quite add up."

"I think I can answer that," said Mr Fisher through gritted teeth. He was trembling with rage, his face bright red. "Ted Masters is my accountant, and he knew all about my coin collection. It was he who suggested I get them evaluated. Oh, he didn't recommend anyone in particular—he's far too savvy to arouse any suspicion like that—but he must have known I'd check around and go to see the most reputable appraiser in the area. That's why I came to Mr Johnson here."

"And I mentioned your name to him," groaned Mr Johnson, looking with some embarrassment at Mr Fisher. "Ted and I were chatting early that afternoon, and I mentioned you were coming in at two o'clock. Ted must have guessed right away you were bringing your valuable coins, and made that phone call to this Carl fellow."

"Which means Mr Masters had already obtained the combination by that afternoon," Fatty said, nodding. "It probably took three or four days of watching to be absolutely sure he had it right. Peering down through a hole in a ceiling isn't the easiest way to watch someone spin a dial and open a safe."

Mr Masters was still shaking his head, but now he gave a short laugh. "All right, clever clogs—since you have everything figured out, why don't you explain to everyone here exactly _how_ I'm expected to read the numbers on the dial while peering through a tiny hole in the ceiling!"

Fatty turned to Mr Johnson. "Sir—may I ask you exactly where the safe is located?"

Bets suddenly ran forward. "I know!" she said excitedly, and went straight to one of the hanging picture frames. It opened like a cupboard door. Behind it was the safe.

Everyone looked surprised at how Bets had somehow known which picture the safe was hidden behind, and Superintendent Jenks gave her a wink and a smile.

Fatty grinned at her, and went to the safe. Then he called up to the attic. "Are you still up there?"

"Yes—watching the show," came the muffled reply, followed by a faint chortle.

"Can you see the dial all right?" asked Fatty, spinning the dial as if he were opening the safe. "You can see over my shoulder?"

"Oh, yes," called the policeman in the attic. "The hole is cut at an angle, and it's pointing right at the safe. I can see everything fine—only I can't read the numbers on the dial. There's no way I could figure out the combination from up here."

Mr Master laughed. "See? A nice idea, lad, but complete rubbish! I've never heard so much nonsense in my life. You'd have to have eyes like a hawk to read the dial from that distance."

"Or own a nice miniature brass telescope," said Fatty softly.

There was a long silence.

Mr Goon finally sighed. "He's right, sir," he said to Superintendent Jenks. "Mr Masters has a small ornamental telescope in his office next door. Saw it meself, sir."

"Is that right?" said the superintendent, pleased. He called up to the attic. "All right, you can come on down now." Then he turned to the other two waiting policeman. "You may escort Mr Masters off to the police station—but first, perhaps he'd be good enough to tell us what he's done with the coins?"

Ted Masters was scowling, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "You'll never know," he muttered. "Do what you like with me. Send me to prison. I'll be out in a few years, and when I am, I'll be rich."

He laughed, and the two policemen escorted him from the room and down the stairs.

A sigh went through the room. Mr Goon stood quietly, appearing to be lost in thought, and Superintendent Jenks patted him on the shoulder. "Well, Goon? Can you honestly say you would have worked all that out on your own?"

"No, sir," the policeman muttered, deflated.

"And this is why we should work _with_ Frederick and his fellow Find-Outers, and not _against_ them. Goon, trust me on this—you can't afford to work against them."

Superintendent Jenks laughed suddenly, and turned his twinkling eyes to Fatty. "Excellent work, Frederick—but I must say I'm surprised you can't hand over the coins too. You normally round everything off nicely."

"I'd like permission to turn that man's office upside down," Mr Fisher suddenly barked. "If he's hiding them in there, I'll—"

"They could be in his safe," said Larry. "That would be ironic, wouldn't it? And bold, too."

"As bold as brass," Fatty murmured. "That's something the caretaker said about the thief who broke in through the window. Turns out it was Ted Masters who was bold as brass—as bold as his brass telescope!"

He turned to Bets and Daisy. "It was what you two said in the lobby that really set me on the right track. You were saying how the thief must have been able to see through walls or peer through the window...and of course he did, sort of. He peered through a hole in the ceiling!"

Mr Fisher cleared his throat. "I'd really like to find my coins now, if you don't mind," he said firmly to the superintendent. "This has all been interesting, and I'm astonished that these kids managed to do what the police couldn't—but all I'm really interested in is getting my coins back."

"We'll get straight on it," said Superintendent Jenks smoothly. "Goon, perhaps you can start a search next door—and Thompson can help you when he gets down from the attic."

"Yes, sir," said Mr Goon, not looking altogether pleased. "I'll get right on it, sir."

He marched out, and Mr Fisher went with him. Mr Goon's voice could be heard from the hallway as he explained to Mr Fisher that this was a police matter and civilians weren't allowed to help in police searches—but Mr Fisher's response was short and simple: "Tommy-rot!"

Superintendent Jenks turned to Fatty and his friends, and glanced from one to the other. He then smiled at Mr Johnson. "Well, Mr Johnson, my apologies once again for Goon's initial bad behaviour, and for, er, getting the wrong man, so to speak."

The coin appraiser collapsed behind his desk and rubbed his eyes. "I don't care about that now. I just feel extremely cheated and angry. I've know Ted Masters for years, and...and..."

"Some people are unfortunately capable of turning on their own mother for a bit of quick cash," said the superintendent grimly. "Don't feel too bad, Mr Johnson. If Mr Masters made a fool of you, he made a fool of us all."

Mr Johnson looked up. "But not these children," he said softly. He looked at Bets and tilted his head, frowning. "I know you, don't I? You came here with your grandfather."

Bets giggled suddenly and clapped a hand over her mouth, going red.

Fatty smiled. "Yes, her grandfather's a wonderful fellow," he said, grinning around at the others. "You all know him. Wouldn't you agree he's a wonderful fellow?"

"Shut up, Fatty," said Larry, Pip and Daisy together.

Superintendent Jenks grinned. "I suspect I know your grandfather too, Bets. Is he the chap with the rather large head?"

Everyone burst into laughter, except Fatty, who rolled his eyes.

"He _can_ be a bit of a big-head!" cried Bets in delight.

Mr Johnson looked appalled. "Really, young lady—that's no way to talk about your grandfather..."

Everyone roared, and this time Fatty joined in.

There came a shout from next door, and the superintendent headed out into the hall, followed by five children and Mr Johnson.

Ted Masters' office door stood wide open, and inside Mr Goon was holding a large white vase with a very thin neck. As everyone crowded into the room, Mr Goon shook the vase gently. It sounded like the coins were rattling around inside.

Mr Goon held the vase upside down, and coins rained down on Mr Masters' desk. Everyone gasped at the gold and silver rainbow of colour. "There must be a hundred of them!" Daisy said in amazement. "They're so pretty!"

Mr Fisher nodded, his eyes gleaming and a broad smile across his face. "Fifty-two gold coins, and thirty-five silver," he said. "Recovered from an old pirate's personal belongings, buried underneath a house off the coast of Cornwall. Worth an absolute fortune—right, Mr Johnson?"

Mr Johnson nodded. "I haven't finished my study yet, but yes, this little lot are more valuable than you can imagine." He turned to Mr Goon. "I take it you didn't find the nice velvet box Mr Fisher brought them along in?"

"No, sir," Mr Goon said, looking triumphant. "But I'm sure Mr Fisher can buy a new one. I reckon old Ted Masters was so sure of himself he thought the coins would be perfectly safe in here."

"It's a good job a burglar didn't break in," said Pip, sounding flabbergasted. "Imagine making off with all these nice ornaments, expecting to make a few bob...and then discovering those coins inside the vase!"

Superintendent Jenks looked around. "So all's well that ends well. Find-Outers, once again you've come through on top—and because I'm in such a good mood, and everything's worked out all right, I might just forget that Mr Goon here arrested the wrong man on very flimsy evidence. That is, of course, if Mr Johnson is willing to forgive him. What do you think, Mr Johnson?"

Everyone looked at Mr Johnson. He narrowed his eyes, staring at the red-faced policeman. He thought for what seemed a very long time.

Then he sighed. "Perhaps if he buys us all tea? How about it, Mr Goon?"

Bets clapped her hands together. "Oh, yes! How about macaroons all round?"

"Or," said Pip, nudging Daisy, "how about sausage rolls? We know a very good bakery that sells them."

"Gah!" said Mr Goon.

**THE END**


End file.
